


And I Remember Everything

by Kinthinia



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Academic Jaskier, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern Witchers (The Witcher), Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Awkward Flirting, Canonical Character Death, College Student Jaskier | Dandelion, Djinni & Genies, Drunk Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Drunk Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eskel is a book restorer, Eventual Happy Ending, Geralt rides a motorcycle named Roach, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Happy Ending, Heartache, Intimacy, Jaskier | Dandelion Has ADHD, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Lambert is an MMA fighter, M/M, Magic, Musician Jaskier | Dandelion, Pansexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Pining, Slow Burn, Swordfighting, Touch-Starved Jaskier | Dandelion, Triss is a therapist, its very loosely inspired by it, the Call Me By Your Name AU no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:02:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 69,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27555037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kinthinia/pseuds/Kinthinia
Summary: Jaskier's final graduation project: a collection of stories about the ancient order of Witchers who lived in Kaer Morhen. He never anticipated meeting the last living Witchers -let alone grumpy Geralt who seemed to hate him was a member of their ranks. Maybe he shouldn't have proclaimed himself to be better at Witchering than Geralt... Too late now!He thought it was going to be a summer of torment, withstanding Geralt's biting comments, but gradually Jaskier realizes he respects the other man. And if Geralt just happens to be unbelievably attractive, well, no one could fault Jaskier for falling in love before semester's end.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 256
Kudos: 254





	1. Let's Never Meet Again

###  Chapter One, It's So Nice To Meet You, Let's Never Meet Again 

Kaer Morhen, the once-legendary home of curse-breakers and monster-hunters, was now the summer dream home of one lucky applicant for the Master of the Seven Liberal Arts… Provided, of course, the final thesis was a project as it related to the history and legends of Kaer Morhen and her Witchers. Oxenfurt provided vital funding to the preservation and maintenance of Kaer Morhen, as part of the collaboration between the two. The lucky applicant would be allowed to summer on the gorgeous mountain estate for free, with only the care and supervision of Kaer Morhen resident expert Vesemir von Rivia whose family lineage could be traced back to the eleventh century. For hundreds of years the man’s family had been involved in taking care of the castle, but the program between Oxenfurt and Kaer Morhen had only started up about ten years ago. The lure of free food and housing was one few students could pass on, and Jaskier was no exception. History student after history student had won their way through the great doors to write about the architecture, the wars and battles that had been won and lost. 

Truly, a waste of talent as far as Jaskier was concerned. Those walls would be crawling with stories and he was desperate to get inside and write about the forgotten Witchers, the wild monsters and beautiful sorcerers that had graced the halls of Kaer Morhen. It didn’t matter that he was only one of twenty applicants, because he was the best of them. (No matter what Professor Livingstone said, geography didn’t hold a lot of weight around here and it had been a snooze fest. It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault no one checked the inside cover of his hollowed out text book to find the flask there, and it wasn’t his fault he could sleep without snoring. Really, they both made geography that much more interesting). Besides, if he got lost, he could just pull out his cell phone. It contained maps of the whole world, city districts, a compass app and could even understand longitude and latitude. 

“Jaskier, mail!” his roommate said, tossing the envelope in his direction.

Jaskier caught it neatly, gaping at the wax seal on it. “You can’t just throw a treasure like this around! It has a wax seal on it, James!”

But his roommate only grumbled under his breath and resumed rifling through the mail. Likely hoping his scholarship application had been extended for another year. Jaskier carefully broke the seal, feeling like some kind of medieval lord. Peasants surely didnt use wax seals back then. It was a handwritten letter, which he carefully unfolded. The address was unfamiliar to him, but the stamp indicated it was from the historical society. His heart thumped painfully. 

“Dear Julian, Kaer Morhen would be honored to have you join us for the summer!” Jaskier shouted with triumph. “I got the position!”

“Grats bro,” James said. “I hear there isn’t anything to do there, you know that right?”

“Free food, for like, four months! A trip out of here, to another country, completely paid for?” Jaskier scoffed. “This will be so worth it!”

By the end of April, Jaskier was on a flight on a small, shaky airplane to Gynvael where he would meet his guide. A guide! While the flight was sketchy to say the least, rumbling with every gust of wind, it did get him to Gynvael in one piece. The area was full of rugged, snow capped mountains. Gynvael itself barely qualified as a town as far as Jaskier was concerned, but the buildings were old and colorful. There was something kind of nostalgic about the place, with its many bicycles and a handful of payphone stands. Sights Jaskier hadn’t seen in a few years. The airport was just a small airstrip with two boutiques and a sandwich stand; Jaskier stopped at all of them.

He bought a tweed flat cap and put it on, and got the most basic sandwich on the menu before stepping out into the waiting area. His luggage was already there, much to his relief. He grabbed it, walking out of the doors with confidence. He nearly stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the only man in the waiting room with a sheet of paper and Jaskier’s name. Long silver hair had been braided back from his face, revealing a pair of golden eyes. He wore skinny jeans and a black leather jacket that emphasized broad shoulders. Jaskier cleared his throat.

The man lifted his head, sharp yellow eyes giving him a once-over. 

“I’m Jaskier,” he said, gesturing at himself. “Here for the Kaer Morhen tour.”

The briefest of smiles touched his face, for perhaps less than a second, before it was back to the scowling face of neutrality. He didn’t seem like a man fond of emoting. 

“Who else would you be? Here, in Gynvael?” the man muttered, shaking his head. 

“A tourist!” Jaskier supplied, stepping towards him. “I even bought the most traditional hat I could find.”

“You look ridiculous,” he said, mouth curling with distaste. White stubble covered his jaw, Jaskier noticed. “No one even wears those here, and if Vesemir saw you in that? He’d laugh you out of Kaer Morhen.”

“I’m not taking it off,” Jaskier declared, pulling it down more firmly onto his head. “I love it.”

His guide shook his head and started walking. Jaskier hurried to catch up, luggage scraping by on the tiled floor. One of the wheels needed to be replaced, or oiled or something, Jaskier didn’t know, but it made a terrible noise. It was easy enough to ignore, a background sound that Jaskier tuned out. One moment he was aware of it, the next he was focused on trying to figure out who this tall but very rude stranger was. Aside from his guide -what connection did he have to Kaer Morhen? Maybe none. Maybe he was just a local of Gynvael? The guide whirled around, lifting Jaskier’s luggage so quickly he didn’t even try to fight it. He blinked. 

“What?”

“Awful noise.” He shoved the doors open and Jaskier followed him onto a deserted street. The man walked over to a motorcycle and Jaskier whistled in appreciation.

“So I thought I was meeting Vesemir?”

“The horses got out,” he replied dully, strapping Jaskier’s luggage onto the end of the motorcycle.\

“The horses got out,” Jaskier repeated. 

“Yes,” he replied flatly, glancing at Jaskier as though he were dumb. 

It rubbed his ego the wrong way. He had six out of seven degrees, all of them useless, except that he could claim ownership of them. This was the last project he had to do, and he didn’t have to write an essay or memorize any maps, or argue the pros and cons of philosophy. All he had to do was learn about the history of a crumbling castle, the inhabitants of it and their marvelous stories -and then he could do a performance piece and be done with Oxenfurt University.

“What do the horses have to do with Vesemir?” 

The man scoffed. “Well, obviously, someone has to get them back into their pen. Before the wolves, or the bears, or a cougar find them a tastier meal than the deer in these parts.” He shoved a helmet into Jaskier’s hands.

Jaskier put it on obediently. “Of course he had to round up the horses. You couldn’t have just started with that?”

“No,” came the smug response.

Jaskier didn’t know much about motorcycles, or anything about them really, but this one looked particularly expensive. Someone had taken the time to affix a holographic decal that simply read ‘Roach’ onto the side. It was in various shades of silver and blue, and the most eye-catching part of the bike. Jaskier straddled it, watching as his guide got on next. He pointed out that Jaskier could grab onto the bike itself or put them around his middle, much to Jaskier’s displeasure. In different circumstances he would have been all over holding onto someone as beefy and attractive as this guy. But he was tired and sweaty and vaguely insulted, and wanted nothing more than to meet his thesis supervisor and then pass out in a warm and comfortable bed. Jaskier put his arms around the guide, and he kickstarted it to life with a heavy thrum. 

If he had to rate his tour of Gynvael, and the corresponding route to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier would give it a solid 5/10. The scenery was beautiful. But by the time they’d been driving for three hours, Jaskier’s could already tell his legs were going to be numb and aching. And by the time they drove through the valley, the sun was setting and there wasn’t much to see. Not to mention the fact that his guide didn’t say a word the entire time. And Jaskier asked questions. A lot of them. Primarily they were about how much longer it was until Kaer Morhen? He tried to ask about landmarks; nothing. His tour guide was a great big pile of… nothing.

By the time they arrived to Kaer Morhen, the sun was setting and the lanterns had been lit. Jaskier perked up, one arm tight around his guide’s waist, as he ogled at the castle. It was large and imposing, crumbling and worn down in other places. But whether it was because it was a castle, made of crumbling stone, Jaskier had the sense that there was a deep history here. Blood had soaked these grounds; wars had been fought in these grounds. And long before any of that, Witchers had come here to train and fight monsters. Peasants only risked the journey when they couldn’t afford the price for a Witcher to come to them. Sorcerers could have been here, if such a person ever really existed. Jaskier could imagine them standing on the battlements, the peaks of the towers, fireballs in their hands ready to incinerate their opponents.

He parked the motorcycle, and Jaskier wobbled, then gratefully dismounted. The groan that came from him was entirely involuntary and came from the immediate ache in his thighs. His guide laughed, stepping off. 

“Geralt, there you are,” greeted an older man. He was bearded with a full belly, the kind of guy that looked like a pleasant mentor-figure. “I thought you must have gotten lost.”

“Just took the scenic route,” Geralt responded, pulling his helmet off.

Jaskier scowled at him. “That was the scenic route?” He yanked his own helmet off rather impatiently, fumbling to catch his cap when it nearly fell.

“And you must be Jaskier Pankratz. I’m Vesemir von Rivia, and this is my nephew Geralt von Rivia. I hope he wasn’t too insufferable on your way here.”

Jaskier laughed, tired and exhausted. “I have to say I enjoyed the scenery! You don’t get any of this, uh, wilderness down in Oxenfurt.”

Vesemir smiled. “I hope you’ll grow to love Kaer Morhen as the rest of us do.”

Geralt muttered under his breath; Vesemir shot him a cross glance. 

“You must be tired, Jaskier. There’s some dinner out for you and we’ve prepared your room for you.”

Whatever his thoughts were, they vanished with the growl from his stomach. It was easier to nod, so that’s what he did, and walked towards Vesemir. He could eat a few bites and then collapse in bed. As much as he wanted to explore, as much as he wanted to stare and admire the castle, sleep was calling his name. 

“Your luggage,” Geralt said, setting the pack off his motorcycle. He mounted the bike again, and took off.

“Well he’s chatty,” Jaskier said, groaning as he lifted his bag.

“Try not to take it personally,” Vesemir advised, helping Jaskier into the castle.

Yeah, there wasn’t a problem with that. Dinner was a rich stew that Jaskier wished he could appreciate more, but it was enough to eat a few bites before he was nodding off. Vesemir didn’t seem to take offence though, laughing, and showing him the way to his room. It was up three flights of stairs, and Jaskier took one look at the bed, collapsed on it, and passed out within seconds.

Morning came far too early, but someone had left the curtains in his room wide open. And it was cold, and drafty. Which maybe he should have expected considering he was sleeping in an ancient castle. But insulation had existed for hundreds of years at this point, and Jaskier never considered it when he agreed to stay here for four months. He shivered, pulling the blankets closer. What about the plumbing? His eyes shot wide open. What about the plumbing? Dear god, it better not be an outhouse. No longer able to sleep or enjoy the vague hint of warmth, Jaskier forced himself out of bed.

There was a thick, plush rug on the flower with an ash cover to protect it from the fireplace. A massive hearth took up half the room, and Jaskier figured this must have once been some important guest’s chamber. He ran his hand along the rough stone, spotting the wood box and the kindling pile. Generic framed pictures of smiling families sat along the mantle. The price tag on each frame really sold the impersonal nature of them. A solid wood bookshelf sat in the corner of the room, and Jaskier imagined that in the later hours of the day the sunlight from the window streamed directly into the corner. The bed itself was a canopy with curtains dangling down from it; Jaskier marveled at the fact that he hadn’t tangled himself up in them with asleep. 

The bathroom was adjoined to his room, much to his relief. And inside it, was a world of modern day plumbing to his relief. They’d gone to great effort to redo it in the last few years, featuring a rain shower and stone tiling identical to the rest of the building. The water was hot and refreshing, and ten times the quality he’d ever had in his old dorm room, and Jaskier would be devastated to leave it behind. 

Downstairs Vesemir was sitting at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand. “Sleep well?”

“So well,” Jaskier enthused. “And the shower upstairs? I would kill a man for that!”

Vesemir chuckled, folding the newspaper down. “I hope you’re not a fussy eater. Selection is limited out here, nothing like what Oxenfurt can provide, I’m afraid.”

Jaskier shrugged, lifting the lid off the tray that had been set aside for him. Toast, scrambled eggs, a splash of porridge and several pieces of bacon lay there. “My grandparents had a cabin in Kerack, I spent a few weekends out there. The fridge didn’t always work, so anything that spoiled quickly wasn’t a great option.”

Vesemir nodded. “Not quite the case for us, I fear Oxenfurt wouldn’t have agreed to partner with us if we couldn’t promise food safety standards were being met. It’s just that Gynvael has only the one grocer, and when we shop we tend to stock for a month at a time.”

Jaskier nodded along, devouring his breakfast eagerly.

“In your application you mentioned an eagerness for learning about the mythologies here. What exactly about them? I could point you in a direction of study.”

Jaskier swallowed. “Witchers, sorcerers, the battles they fought here. That sort of thing.”

Vesemir’s eyebrows rose. “Witchers, you say? That’s one your scholars and the like aren’t fond of speaking about.”

“Their stories have been untold for millennia, and I think it’s time they get a shot at being brought to the light. It’s one of the few things I knew about Kaer Morhen -that she’d withstood time, and armies, a civil war, and once housed Witchers.”

“Taught them, even,” Vesemir added, watching Jaskier intently.

“Really?” Jaskier set his fork aside, sitting up. “I only knew -well, that about sums up what I know. Witchers hunted monsters, helped break curses, the kind of thing peasants must have loved.”

“I have some books to start you with, young Jaskier. You really believe the Witchers existed?”

“I think some organization or group of knights had to have existed. There’s folklore here and there about them breaking curses, surviving a civil war. Maybe someone, or several people, just told really detailed stories that people liked?” he mused. “Even then, there’d be surviving literature, one way or another.”

“It’s a bit like trying to prove whether dragons existed, isn’t it?” Vesemir pressed.

Jaskier shook his head. “I’m not trying to prove they existed, though. I’m just here to give them a voice. A way to be heard after all this time.”

“You’ve come to the right place for that, Jaskier. I have a journal from one of the Witchers -none of the others were interested in it. Called it a piece of fiction.”

Jaskier leapt to his feet. “Can I see it now?”

Vesemir laughed. “Finish your breakfast, lad. You’ve got four months here yet, I think that’s enough time to finish one journal.”

Jaskier sat on the dusty stone, journal in hand, an old lute laying across his lap. The journal was written by a man named Dalgin who wrote extensively about his travels. Dalgin claimed to be a Witcher, that he was walking the Path when he came across Apyd Gynvael where a griffin had been plaguing the townspeople. Apparently the local magistrate had sent in a troop of soldiers, much to Dalgin’s frustration because the army was only good for bungling things up worse. And certainly they had, because after Dalgin had killed the griffin off, he’d discovered a nest with smashed eggs and the griffin’s dead mate. He took the people’s money because it was the least he deserved. But, and what surprised Jaskier the most, was his descriptions of how the townspeople hated him. Feared him, even. What made Witchers so noticeable on sight? How did they know he was a Witcher? But the journal didn’t contain those answers. Not a shred of them.

Dalgin went on to write about several other encounters he had, with beasts he referred to as drowners, hag witches, wraiths and nekkers. They all sounded horribly unpleasant. Nekkers who turned up on battlefields to consume the flesh of the dead? Dalgin tried to save a man who had been bitten by one, but in the end chose to mercy kill him instead. Still, the man’s family chose to blame Dalgin for his death and tried to attack the Witcher. As though they hadn’t been able to see the terrible agony the man had been in, who had been thrashing about and screaming, before he ended up passing out. Concoctions and potions -the kind made for men, and hadn’t that been a unique specification? -had no effect. In minutes, Dalgin wrote, the man would wake screaming again as his own flesh would begin to rot off his body in horrible strips. So he did the sensible thing and ended his suffering.

Dalgin’s last entry was the saddest. He had gone to save a village from a necrophage outbreak, and after killing all the flesh eaters, found a mob of angry townsfolk instead. His entry cut off there, but in another hand, someone had added a final line. Dalgin from the School of the Bear didn’t take the life of a single petty villager. May he find peace in the afterlife.

Jaskier closed the journal, mind whirling. He plucked at a few strings on the lute, wincing at their discordant notes. A quick Google search later and he was three-quarters of the way done tuning it when Vesemir came looking for him. Jaskier was only too eager to discuss the fate of the late Witcher, keeping his hands busy as he patiently worked the lute back into tune. The strings would have to be replaced, of course, but it was a shame to keep such an instrument in these terrible conditions. It was Vesemir who had information about the Witchers -how they had been persecuted for being mutants, undergoing some kind of rudimentary gene manipulation that left them emotionless or dead. How people were quick to mob and blame an unsuspecting Witcher if it suited their fancy. 

“Do you know how to ride a horse?” Vesemir asked suddenly.

“No,” Jaskier said, puzzled.

“You’ll want to learn. I’m not much of a driver myself -prefer horseback. These days Geralt does all the driving for me, so I’m afraid the only way for you to get to town is by horseback. Unless you want to be walking through the night.”

“Can I learn how to fight with swords too?” Distantly he thought he could remember swordplay being advertised in the application process, and if he wanted to really understand what life back then was like, swordplay and riding a horse were vital elements of the process.

Vesemir chuckled. “I’m too old for that, but Geralt was rather talented in his younger days. He’ll be by later this afternoon, if you’d like to ask him.”

Jaskier didn’t, not really, but the allure of swinging a sword around was a siren’s song to him. “Does he live here, then?”

Vesemir gestured behind Kaer Morhen, further in the mountains. “He stays in one of the other buildings during the summer, working on letting them meet safety standards for a new generation of students to enjoy.”

“There’s other buildings?”

“A collapsed mine, we think it used to be where they did the gene mutations. But every time we try to excavate it, something goes terribly wrong. We figure it’s better to stay sealed up tight. Kaer Morhen has a smithy, the ruins of what was once a fort, and ruins of training grounds. Near as we can tell, the fort was lost during the civil war where the Witchers were blamed for the death of a king. The training ground was the sight of a massacre. If you aren’t careful, you can stumble across bones.”

“You must have archeologists crawling all over those grounds.”

“About fifteen years ago, we did. Now I just call them when we find something that will interest them.” Vesemir shrugged. “We’re part of a historical heritage site these days. Anything we adjust or want to change we have to run past three committees for approval, and have an architect and archeologist on site in case we find something significant.”

Jaskier got to his feet, lute in hand. “Is it alright if I keep this? At least for a few days or so. I used to play the violin when I was a kid.”

His fingers itched to play it. 

“I certainly have no use for it, and no one else has shown an interest. You can take it with you to Oxenfurt all I care. Now: horses?”

Learning how to ride a horse was both harder and easier than Jaskier expected. The hardest part was mounting -the trick to keeping one foot in the stirrup and swinging his other leg over the beast. Vesemir had assured him that the gelding he picked out was a mild-mannered creature, perfect for learning on, but the animal was stubborn. It seemed to delight in doing the exact opposite of what Jaskier wanted it to do. Vesemir wasn’t much help, simply telling Jaskier to pull on the reins and guide the horse to whichever direction he wanted. After all, Jaskier was the one in charge of the animal, not the other way around. Jaskier very much wanted to disagree. Vesemir eventually took pity on him, and Jaskier was only too grateful to limp away. 

Jaskier was free to spend his evenings and weekends however he wanted, he found himself holed up with the lute and material about the lives of Witchers. And while Kaer Morhen did have Internet, Jaskier wasn’t interested in chatting up anyone from Oxenfurt. He had plenty of friends there, but they weren’t as passionate as he was about the arts or about mythology. In what little spare time he found between all of that, he composed. There wasn’t anything else to do, he reasoned, and music was his first and foremost lover. She was always there when he needed her, and with a lute beside him and not much else to occupy his time, the words came easily. 

Soon, Jaskier fell into a comfortable pattern of waking, reading, eating, reading, riding horses, researching what he could find online about Witchers and the era they lived in, before eating, reading, composing and sleeping. It was perhaps the most invigorated he’d felt in the last four years. He’d been living and breathing academy for so long that getting outside was a pleasure, even if he was still shoddy at riding a horse and even worse at reading a map.


	2. No, I Won't Smile

###  Chapter Two, No, I Won't Smile, But I'll Show You My Teeth 

Vesemir had declared that cell phones were persona-non-grata the first time Jaskier pulled his out to plan a hike with his gelding. No, he had to do it like the Witchers did. Which was thrilling at first, the discomfort and uncertainty of it soon won out. The white gelding flicked its ears as a branch snapped nearby, and Jaskier clung a little closer. His goal wasn’t even far, but Vesemir had run the trail ahead of him and was waiting at the training grounds. 

Jaskier wasn’t familiar with the area, and an irrational part of his mind imagined wolves racing through the trees just out of sight. He shivered. No, Vesemir wouldn’t leave him in danger of that. It would break the safety protocols that Oxenfurt had established. Dalgin travelled using old trail signs, following the worn path through forests and across land. Jaskier slowed Pegasus, rubbing his neck soothingly as he stared at the forest floor intently. He thought perhaps the ground looked more worn to the right. There were trampled flowers here, and a pile of horse dung there, so clearly Vesemir had been this way. He urged Pegasus onward, and within a few moments came to a clearing. Vesemir grinned at him, like a proud father, and beyond Jaskier spotted Geralt’s motorcycle and the crumbling remains of a great ruin.

“Welcome to the battle ground,” Vesemir said, indicating behind him. “Not much left of it.”

“This place is massive,” Jaskier said, gazing around in wonder.

“People lived and fought here,” Geralt said, stepping down from the nearby cabin. At least it resembled a cabin. There was a carpenter’s belt around his waist, silver wisps of hair pasted to his sweaty brow, and sawdust clung to his boots. 

“Children used to learn to fight here,” Vesemir said, dismounting.

Jaskier scrambled after him -and it was a scramble, because dismounting was the awkward struggle of a step and a hop that he was yet to perfect. “I’d love to see. Do you have swords? Are there weapons here?”

“What does it matter to you?” Geralt asked. “Why the fascination with Witchers?”

Jaskier blinked, turning to face him. “Someone should tell their stories, shouldn’t they? It would be a shame if they were forgotten to history. And I might not be able to prove they were real, but fiction is better than nothing. How can you not be interested in them? These brave men were raised from childhood to fight monsters or die trying; for all we know, they could be the reason we don’t have to fear nekkers and drowners.”

“They could be the reason we don’t have dragons too.”

Jaskier shrugged. “I doubt dragons were perfect all the time. I’m sure there was a flock of sheep or a couple hundred villages they scorched. What would they do to airplanes?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “There isn’t a place for Witchers or their monsters these days, Jaskier. Not even their stories. If the Witchers died out to history, it was for a reason, they’re better off forgotten.”

Jaskier bristled in offense. He didn’t know where to start! “Look, the Knights of the Round Table get their stories told. Charlemange got his, so did Cu Cuchulain, Helen of Troy, and even Grace O’Malley made it into the history books! You want to argue about monsters? Let’s talk about the Kraken that plagued Norway, griffins in Greece, the Sphinx -there’s plenty of stories about them. And what was their purpose in the grand scheme of world history? Inspiration! Hundreds of songs, games, any kind of media has reference to at least one of them.”

Geralt snorted. “And you think your little school project will do that?”

Jaskier gaped, so offended he was rendered speechless. 

“What is your final project, anyway?” Geralt pressed. “Because I recall your application said you hadn’t decided on one yet. Which is largely why I was against you being the one here anyway.”

But his words stung, because Jaskier still didn’t know what his project was going to be. His professors weren’t overly worried about it, because it was a pass or fail final grade. So long as he turned in something presentable, he’d be fine. He knew he wanted to present a project about the Witchers. He’d passed his writing, poetry and composition classes with flying colors the Liberal Arts Department hadn’t been worried after his interview with them, because Jaskier was charming and convincing. Most importantly, he was right. Whatever format he presented his final project in would be well-received, and he had six months to get there or fail. 

“Geralt, enough. We didn’t come here for this,” Vesemir said sharply. “The final decision wasn’t up to you.”

Jaskier squared his shoulders, meeting Geralt’s gaze reluctantly. “I don’t know what format my final project will be, but it is going to be about Witchers. And it will be better than anything you’ve ever read before, Geralt von Rivia.” He was tempted to do a mocking bow, but resisted. “Thank you for your time, Vesemir, but I think I’ll pass on today.”

He knew when he wasn’t wanted, and more importantly, it was clear that the two men wanted to have words with each other. Jaskier walked back to his horse, hands shoved into his pockets. 

“We need a revival project like this!” Vesemir shouted. “We can’t keep afloat with just a few historical site tourists. Whatever he writes will be better than nothing!”

Jaskier winced. He didn’t hear Geralt’s response, but he could hear Vesemir’s voice. Not the words, just the flow of angry noise. He understood Vesemir’s point. Whatever Jaskier created would draw more attention to Kaer Morhen than scholarly articles could. Why Geralt was so against it, Jaskier wasn’t sure. The comparison between great works like that of King Arthur and Helen of Troy stung, as though Jaskier could never hope to compete with them. He suddenly, bitterly, missed the comforts of Oxenfurt. His weekly performances at the Rosemary and Thyme, where he could get on the stage and have everyone’s attention on him for an hour at a time. He was a local favorite, for sure, and people turned up just to listen to him sing.

Jaskier hauled himself up into the saddle, too distracted to marvel at how smoothly he managed the motion. He sighed. He was only attending Oxenfurt to prove he was a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, in order to secure his inheritance. And it stung. At sixteen he’d been prepared to move out at eighteen and make a career of his voice and talent -and he’d been doing lessons since he was just a child, so he wasn’t clueless either -but his grandparents decided to pull the rug out from under him. They refused to let him access the funds they’d promised him all his life unless he got a degree and proved to them that his “passion” was worth anything financially. He’d planned to start an album with the money, and while he could have tried to become an overnight star, he didn’t think it likely. And then they moved the goal post on him again, that they would support his music only if he got into the most prestigious Arts program in the country, that he could have his funds.

Jaskier rode Pegasus back to Kaer Morhen, staring up at the castle. He had six months to spend here, and ample free time to get prepared for making his dream come true. Because it didn’t matter if his grandparents decided not to support him after he graduated; he’d attended one of the most prestigious programs in the country and he had connections. One way or another he would be rid of his awful grandparents’ expectations. And hearing Geralt echo something even vaguely similar to them was irrationally infuriating. 

He glanced back towards the treeline, waiting for Vesemir. But there was no sign of the older man. Jaskier fumbled in his pocket, sliding his cell open. He tapped the map icon, and picked out a nice easy route to Gynvael. He turned back, once, but there was no sign of either Vesemir or Geralt. He wrote a brief text, out of courtesy alone, and sent the message to Vesemir. Maybe his horseback riding skills weren’t the greatest, and maybe the trip was longer than any Jaskier had made before, but he didn’t care. He wanted to get away from the shadow of Kaer Morhen, just for a few hours. 

Gynvael was still a few hours away on horseback but it was a considerably shorter route than the one Geralt had taken him on, that first night. Down through the pass, across a few barren country roads, and he was there. Jaskier didn’t know what to do with Pegasus, so he walked through town on the horse. People didn’t look at him because he was riding a horse, he soon learned, but because they all wanted to know who he was. Many of the older folks asked him point blank, and in turn for his name and reason for being in Gynvael, they pointed him in the direction of the town’s only pub. One of the patrons was kind enough to take pity on Jaskier, showing him how to loop Pegasus’ reins through a fence post. 

He paid the bartender extra for a large bucket of water, which he carried outside for the gelding. He pet him reassuringly, taking the time to stretch out his aching legs. He wasnt sure when or if he would ever get used to riding. Sooner would be better, given he was here for six months and Vesemir kind of seemed like he’d never heard of cars before. When Jaskier went back in, they were clearing the stage, and a within a matter of minutes he had his name on the list for performing. But, as he was the newcomer, he was at the end of the night which was fine by him. Jaskier checked his phone to see that Vesemir had seen his message, but left him on read. There wasn’t anything his mentor could have said anyway, Jaskier was an adult. 

Jaskier ordered a few drinks, most of which the bartender had never heard of. Right. He was in the middle of nowhere, in a town that lived in the shadows of a centuries-old castle. “I’ll have a local craft, then,” he said, resigned. Beer wasn’t his favorite; he preferred the fruity, sugary drinks that made getting drunk tasty left him with a night full of regrets. 

He nursed the first beer slowly, trying not to wince as the first performer of the night strummed an acoustic guitar and sang along. He drank his second considerably faster, appreciating the subtle nutty aroma and the hint of chocolate he thought he could taste. The second performer was a comedian whose entire punchline seemed to revolve mostly around local gossip and inside-jokes, but he got a good laugh. Jaskier chuckled a few times, but spent much of the time confused. He ordered a third beer and a plate of nachos for his growling stomach. He watched the third performer sing requests from the crowd while he picked at his plate, sipping his beer. It was a local craft, the bartender had said, and Jaskier found it wasn’t nearly so terrible at all, in fact he quite liked it. Though he would have killed to get his hands on a raspberry swirl or a champagne dream, and he would have gladly settled for a cosmo or monkey’s lunch. But beer wasn’t the worst. 

“Jaskier Pankrantz!” someone called, stumbling over his name. In fact it was really more of a butchering, as far as Jaskier was concerned. It was closer to Yas-ker Pain-kratz. Maybe that should be his performing name. 

He stumbled up to the stage, and oh boy, he was a lot drunker than he’d realized. But he made it up there, grabbing onto the microphone stand like it was his lifeline to keep on his feet. 

“Who the hell are you?!” someone in the crowd shouted. 

The man’s neighbor elbowed him, and Jaskier figured his name and story must be getting spread around pretty quickly. Small towns and all that.

“Yasker Painkratz!” Jaskier shouted, punching the air. “God I love your town! I’m the -the student? From Oxenfurt. I’m staying at Kaer Morhen. I’m going to be a singer, and here’s a song for you lovely folks!”

The words came naturally, and though his fingers itched for the familiar strings under his fingers, he thought his audience seemed enraptured. It was an old song of his with a fast beat, dedicated to his love of performance and the exhilaration. They clapped and cheered when he finished, and begged for another. So he sang about heartbreak, about Catherine de Stael, the song he knew would always belong to her. And then another song, and another, until his voice was hoarse and he didn’t feel like he was about to fall over at any moment. At some point during his song, he’d taken his jacket off, leaving him in nothing but a t-shirt. Someone handed him a drink and there was a chorus of demands for one last song, and Jaskier couldn’t in good conscience refuse them. He chugged half the beer, and it had to be a beer, didn’t it, before starting up a new song.

It was something he’d been toying with in Oxenfurt, and now seemed as good a time as any to see how people felt about it. He sang about the dreaded horror of the bogeyman who came to steal naughty children away, he sang how it hunted at night, creeping through vents and windows, the feeling of terror a child must feel before they wake. It wasn’t his greatest work, he knew, but it earned him another round of applause. Except from the silver-haired man who was sitting in the back of the pub, golden eyes bright despite the dim lighting. Seeing Geralt was like getting doused in the face with sobriety. Jaskier stepped off the stage, beer in hand, and managed to walk over to Geralt.

“Well?” he demanded roughly, setting his beer on Geralt’s table. Some sploshed over the side, running down Jaskier’s fingers. 

Geralt didn’t say anything, merely raised a single brow in a feat of such arrogant indifference that Jaskier desperately wanted to punch the man in his, admittedly, pretty face.

“You’re the only one who didn’t clap. You must have some critique, great master of literature, Geralt. Please, do share.” He beckoned at Geralt impatiently. “I can take it. Tell me. Just nice and quick, like tearing a bandage off. No need to keep me waiting, I’m not in a rush. Three words or less.” 

He figured if Geralt had more than three words, Jaskier’s ego might never recover. 

“Not real.”

Jaskier blinked, staring at Geralt like he’d grown a second head. He kind of had… Jaskier tilted his head to the side, and no, he was just wickedly drunk. The world teetered with him, and he sat down quickly, pretending it was intentional.

“What?”

“Not. Real,” Geralt repeated, as though his enunciation had been the problem. “The monster in your song. If you’d read Varin’s bestiary, you’d know that bogeyman were often what children used as an excuse to get out of trouble.”

Jaskier stared at him.

Geralt stared back.

Jaskier stifled a laugh, before giving in and laughing outright. “You spe-spend all day telling me how dragons don’t belong, and Witchers should be dead with history, but you -you show up here to critique my imaginary monsters?”

Geralt shrugged, and it was infuriating.

“Is that all you came here for?” he demanded, taking a swig from his bottle. How many had he drank now? Three? Four?

“Vesemir was worried about the horse.”

“E’s fine,” Jaskier slurred. “Gave him a bucket of water, paid for it myself and everything. And this -this nice person showed me how to tie the reins so he wouldn’t run off. I’m like, like a real cowboy!” 

Cowboys did that in movies all the time, the thing with the reins. But there was usually a water basin. No, wrong word. A water thing. Like a shelf? A shelf of water for the horse, and the cowboys always left them there and Jaskier had left Pegasus with a bucket of water, and really it was the same thing at the end of the day.

“It’s time to go home,” Geralt said, getting to his feet. 

“Ish riding a horse illegal? Because, Geralt, I have been drinking.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Jaskier frowned up at him suspiciously, certain he was being made fun of, but entirely too drunk to tell. 

“I will get you and Pegasus home. Get up Jaskier.”

“You’ll make us go the long way,” Jaskier whined, pulling away from Geralt. “I can’t ride a horse when I’ve been drinking. What if -if he crashes?”

“He’s got more brains in his head than you do, Jaskier. Get up.”

He did get up, but reluctantly, and with as much vocal protest as he could provide. Geralt sighed, steering Jaskier towards the door. He did not want to leave. Well, it was less that he didn’t want to leave and more that he didn’t want to spend another second with the pretty man but he wasn’t going to say that part out loud. What did it matter if he was unfairly attractive? He drove a stupid motorcycle and made stupid arguments. Jaskier would prove him wrong. He didn’t remember what exactly he needed to prove him wrong on, though, but he was sure it would come to him in the morning. Jaskier stumbled ahead of Geralt, gasping when he saw Pegasus and another horse standing together.

“Hey, he made a friend! Look, Geralt, he has a friend. Aw what a lucky guy,” Jaskier said, patting Pegasus’ nose. “Everyone needs friends.”

Geralt helped him into his saddle impatiently, and then grabbed some rope from a bag on the other horse. He looped them over Jaskier’s legs and underneath Pegasus working with efficiency. He kept Pegasus’ reins in his hand, walking them both in a circle before climbing onto the other saddle. And then they were off, and Jaskier held onto the hard joystick thingy on the saddle to keep his balance. The countryside passed quickly, in a blur of green and blue skies. Geralt stopped them several times, just seconds before Jaskier vomited, and then they were off again.

Jaskier ran his fingers through Pegasus’ mane, whispering drunken apologies and prayers that he hadn’t vomited on the poor horse. By the time they got to Kaer Morhen, it was too soon and not soon enough. Geralt untied him swiftly, and caught Jaskier when he would have fallen off Pegasus. He brusquely ushered Jaskier away.

“Can you make it to your room without breaking your neck?” Geralt asked, fixing him with a cold stare.

Jaskier nodded, the back of his neck warming considerably under that gaze. Geralt turned, both reins in his hands, both horses following obediently. Jaskier stepped inside and headed up to his room, a vague feeling of shame curling in his stomach. It was a problem for morning him, though. Tonight he would sleep. He found his room by some miracle of second-guessing and peeking in empty rooms until he found one that looked like his own, whereupon he threw himself on the bed and let sleep take him.


	3. This Got Kinda Drastic

###  Chapter Three, I Guess This Just Got Kinda Drastic 

Jaskier woke up in an unfamiliar, musty smelling bed, his head pounding and his body aching. He groaned, pulling the lower half of his body onto the bed. It smelled old, older than his grandmother’s sitting room that was only used once a year for solstice festivities. He forced one eye open and then the other. His jeans were uncomfortably tight, wrinkled against his skin. He groaned, full of misery and shame. He could vaguely remember pieces of last night -judging performers, singing, Geralt’s arrival was blurry though. Jaskier sat up slowly. Geralt had tied him to a horse. No, he’d insulted him and then tied him to a horse and brought him home. Ugh, it was worse than that. Geralt had heard him sing about bogeymen. He closed his eyes, the room spinning just a touch too fast.

Was this what his summer was going to be like? He could ride a horse to town and get drunk, and have the resident ass hole carry him home. Jaskier pushed himself upright, wincing at the throbbing in his head. He didn’t normally drink so much. Well, he tried not to. And drinking in unfamiliar places, like towns living in the shadow of an ancient crumbling keep, was always a terrible idea. He fished around for his phone, unearthing it from beneath a set of plush pillows he’d knocked off the bed during the night. Drunk Jaskier was a restless sleeper, full of punches and kicks. 

He stepped out of the room that definitely wasn’t his into a hallway unfamiliar to him. Kaer Morhen wasn’t a small building by any means, and though he’d been slowly learning his way around it, he had no idea where he was. How did he even end up here? With a weary sigh, Jaskier started down the hall, peeking open each door he passed. They were all unused, musty bedrooms, cookie cut to be identical to one another. Maybe they’d been home to young Witchers; a chest at the foot of the bed for their gear, basic four poster bed, a small bookshelf for their supplementary reading. Certainly they’d been expected to read about monsters, or curses, or magic, Jaskier imagined. Jaskier shut the door behind him, and wasn’t relieved until he found the start of a hallway that did look familiar. 

But every hallway looked alike in a place as old as this, although some walls were more worn down than others, and this part of the castle looked very ragged indeed. Crumbling bricks, carpets weathered from exposure, with only candlelight holders for light. Jaskier flicked the flashlight mode on his phone on, walking down the hall. It wasn’t anywhere in the direction he needed to be heading, but it was full of adventure. Double-oak doors beckoned him in, and they swung open with a delightfully horrendous screech that sent shivers down his spine. A quick wave of his phone revealed a magnificent library. Jaskier gasped, dust floating around him. He took a step in, long enough for a voice in the back of his head to struggle to consciousness and protest. Records in here likely hadn’t been touched in decades, and he’d done enough studies in history to know that mishandling any documents could cost the world it’s priceless knowledge. 

Next, he noticed the footprints in the dust. He followed them, carefully stepping into each shadowed print of someone who had gone before him. Vesemir, perhaps? He couldn’t imagine Geralt sitting down with a book to read. He raised his hand, revealing rows upon rows of bookshelves stretching around the room, like something you would see in a Disney film. Jaskier around the room carefully, mindless of disturbing the dust that was littered everywhere. A plaque on one of the tables read “this collection is dedicated to Cormac, for collecting what few records of our kind remain.’ Jaskier brushed his fingers along it, and found to his surprise an engraving beneath it. ‘And to Eskel, without him, these pages would be only dust.’ Curiously, someone had clearly used a knife to carve the words into the plaque; it felt oddly offensive to whoever Cormac was, and his hard work. But this room looked like no one had used it in months, if not longer. 

Though it was the dedication to Cormac that held his attention. ‘Our kind?’ Jaskier turned to the shelves, inspecting the books he could see. There were plenty of candle holders, with un-burned candles sitting there, ready to be burned but Jaskier didn’t keep matches or lighters on him. And from what he could see, there were no curtains to speak of. What a poorly built library. It had more in common with a crypt. He shivered at the thought, carefully easing out one of the hardcover tomes. There was no title or author listed, and at a very brief skim of it, with gentle fingers, he saw pictures of various monsters and cramped handwriting crammed into every corner imaginable. He gasped in shock. Had these monsters existed? The notes seemed to imply it; they spoke about swallowing decoctions, coating blades in oil made from basilisk venom, and various weak points in the shelled beasts’ weak points. 

Jaskier’s phone trilled in the darkness and he jumped, nearly dropping the book. Very carefully he returned it to its spot, pulling out his phone to see a message from Vesemir inquiring whether or not Jaskier had survived the night or gotten lost in Kaer Morhen? While the second part was true, Jaskier was certain this room was meant to be off limits. 

‘Our kind?’ the words echoed in his head. The Witchers must have been real. 

Alive, he texted, slipping out of the room as carefully as he had snuck in. Woke up in a strange room with a chest at the end of the bed; definitely not my bed. He hurried back down the hall, peeking in each room until he found the messiest looking one. Sure, he could have tried to make it downstairs, but he didn’t want to reveal how much he knew. Like the library’s entire existence. Though hiding that would be challenging, it was a challenge he was willing to face head-on. 

Jaskier leaned back against the bed, and on closer examination, it was only a twin bed. Perhaps children had used these rooms, once. Recruits? No, children didn’t get recruited into monster-hunting organizations. How did one go about becoming a Witcher? It was hard to imagine a normal man waving a sword or an axe at a shelled beast like that bestiary had pictured. What good would a sword do against lobster claws and a shell no weapon could pierce? Apparently it was weak to certain oils, but the only way to inflict wounds had been by getting to the beasts’ underbelly. No parent would willing let their child volunteer to grow up and fight monsters. Which left only one other possible way for the Witchers to have students: unwilling.

Vesemir knocked on the door briskly, peeking into the room. “I see you found your way to the dormitories.” His gaze lingered on the chest at Jaskier’s side, at the barren room itself, and there was grief in his eyes when he looked away. 

“I did,” Jaskier replied, stepping away from the bed feeling both apologetic and guilty. “There were students here?”

Vesemir glanced at him, all the way down to his dusty, dusty boots. “Yes. But there haven’t been any here in many centuries.”

“Why not?”

“The last time children stayed here, there was a civil war, Jaskier. The children were… casualties. No one survived the night.”

“Who kills children?” Jaskier demanded, horrified. 

“People who are afraid. They were Witcher children, you see, and the plague that stole into what is now Gynvael killed their young. And the Witchers didn’t stop it. So they stormed Kaer Morhen, and burned the outer buildings down; they raised pitchforks against swords. There were more of them than the Witchers, and they won through sheer numbers.”

“But Witchers killed monsters, and broke curses, they couldn’t have cured an illness.”

Vesemir nodded, looking around the room once more. “But they were different, and mysterious, and people… they don’t trust what they can’t understand.”

Jaskier felt like he was missing a piece of the puzzle, and no matter how he tried to grasp it, adjust it, it wouldn’t fit. “How do you know all this?”

“We have records. I wasn’t sure whether they would interest you, they’re quite disheartening.”

“I want to read them!” Jaskier said. “I need to know. The world should know.”

Vesemir raised a hand. “No. No, I won’t have Kaer Morhen become a memorial. It shouldn’t be a place of more sadness. It was built as a safe haven for the Witchers, and then it became a school for students. She should be a place of learning, of respect and understanding. She’s weathered other battles and wars; she shouldn’t be remembered for the one she lost.”

Jaskier nodded reluctantly. “Alright.”

Vesemir showed him to the library, lighting the candles. He didn’t say anything about the footprints in the dust, or comment on Jaskier’s shoes; in turn, Jaskier didn’t ask why Vesemir hadn’t shown him this room before. He pretended it made logical sense, to protect Kaer Morhen’s reputation from wily outsiders determined to destroy it.

“Who was Cormac? And Eskel?” Jaskier asked, pretending as though he had discovered the plaque for the first time. If he pretended, Vesemir couldn’t concretely say Jaskier had broken rules he didn’t know existed.

“Cormac von Rivia, my four times great grandfather. He spent his lifetime gathering these books from across the world, to supplement what was lost during the civil war. Kaer Morhen lost her library that night -she was a castle with no past.”

“And Eskel?”

“He’s another nephew of mine,” Vesemir said. “Book restorer. He spends the springs here, restoring the books. I’m afraid it was probably his brother, Lambert, who wrote this.” He touched the engraving. “Possibly Geralt. The two of them were a pair of rascals back in their day.” Vesemir chuckled to himself. “As though they aren’t now.” He shook his head. “Read whatever you’d like, Jaskier. These books shouldn’t be kept locked up in here, but I’m afraid they’re difficult for an old man like me to read.”

Jaskier was only too happy to oblige.

“Geralt’s agreed to teach you swordplay, lad. You should stop by the training grounds this afternoon, if you’re serious about learning.” Jaskier must have made quite a face because Vesemir chuckled. “Or if he’s scared you from it, you don’t have to bother.”

“No,” he said, quickly. He wasn’t going to let grumpy Geralt determine what he could or couldn’t do. “I’ll go this afternoon.” He turned back towards the library, staring at the books in wonder.

Vesemir set a box of matches beside the plaque. “You’ll need these if you plan to get serious about reading what we have. Eskel’s the only one who would really know what the content is, I’m afraid.”

“No, no, it’s good. It’s amazing, really. I’ll figure my way around.” 

Vesemir pointed the way back to Jaskier’s own room, describing how Jaskier had ended up in the East Wing by mistake, and how to find his way back should he need it. (He would need it).

He lit a few candles and took to admiring at book covers. There were plenty of tomes that looked like they’d seen too many winters, and he was careful to avoid those. He carefully flipped through the pages of several biographies; other covers were just journals, one of which was a dedicated list of names and recorded species. Species that had been lost during the Great Novigrad Purge. Other books spoke of Novigrad as the last hope for humanity, praising the efforts of the Eternal Fire because of the mass culling it had done of magic-kind and related beasts. Had this religious organization competed with Witchers? Had they mercilessly, and in numbers that the Witchers didn’t possess, simply driven what magic was left from the country? 

Inside the musty, carefully preserved pages, Jaskier found journals from survivors who had fled Novigrad. The writers mentioned Witchers, in passing only, as being uniquely unafraid of an organization actively persecuting them. Witches had tried to fight; they were cornered, trapped and butchered. Faerie folk had fled in the night, abandoning family members if it guaranteed their own survival and Jaskier couldn’t blame them for their self-preservation. The depictions of the Eternal Fire were unpleasant. Torture. Death by fire. Hunting across all the world, seeking out elves, witches and whatever else they could get their hands on. Whispers of a witch had them set buildings on fire, burning the occupants without mercy. As far as they were concerned, the suspicion of magic was enough to warrant death.

Jaskier set the journal down and made his way back to his room. Last night he hadn’t just made one wrong turn, but about seven of them. It was almost impressive. Jaskier showered, changed into fresh clothes, and headed downstairs in time to steal a few bites of brunch before walking towards the training grounds. He didn’t imagine seeing Geralt today would be a pleasant experience. He figured he was less likely to be in a tolerable mood after having received a telling off from Vesemir, and especially not after he had to haul a drunken Jaskier back home. But he wasn’t going to let any of that prevent him from learning how to use a sword. It was crucial information if he decided to do a writing project, where swords were the only weapon of choice. As far as he knew, anyway. 

The walk wasn’t bad, even if it was longer without the steady pace of a horse beneath him. He emerged from the treeline into the training grounds; distantly he could hear Geralt hammering at something with determination. He walked up to the house Vesemir had taken him to yesterday, spotting some carpentry tools laying about. Off to the side, impossible to miss, were two swords gleaming in sunlight. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier called. 

The hammering stopped abruptly, and a few moments later, Geralt walked out. Black sleeves pushed up past his elbows, silver hair tied out of his face. Jaskier swallowed, pasted on a sunny smile and waved. 

“I hear sword fighting's on the agenda for today. I can’t begin to tell you how exciting this is, I’ve never held a real sword before, did you know? What type of blade are we using, anyway?”

Geralt grimaced, bending down to pick up both blades. He didn’t answer a single question, instead resolutely marched off towards the fenced in ring. Someone had gone to great effort to replace every post, and aside from the cleanliness of the newer posts, Jaskier wouldn’t have noticed. They looked so similar. Geralt tossed one of the blades over, using his free hand to leap over the fence. Jaskier inhaled. He was nowhere near as elegant, scrambling over the boards and landing on the balls of his feet. Geralt kicked the blade towards him.

“They’re blunt, but if you get hit it’ll hurt.”

Jaskier grabbed the blade with both hands, steadying himself at the unexpected weight of steel. “So you, uh, used to fence?”

Geralt snorted. “Something like that. Put your elbows closer together, like this,” he said, mirroring Jaskier before drawing his elbows closer to his body.

Jaskier copied him, and then Geralt relaxed his pose. He stood like a man at peace in the world, holding his blade with one hand. He gestured Jaskier forward. Jaskier raced towards him, sweeping his blade toward him. And it didn’t cut through the air like he thought it would, like it looked on tv, and his sword came dangerously close to Geralt’s knees but he deflected the blade without batting an eye. There was something grim, and dark in Geralt’s eyes but he beckoned Jaskier again, stepping back easily. Jaskier took a more measured approach, jogging towards him and sweeping the blade higher than he had last time. Geralt leaned back, and the edge of his sword sailed harmlessly across Geralt’s chest. And then Geralt stepped forward, blade knocking Jaskier’s aside and in a single motion, rests the tip of his blade against the base of Jaskier’s throat. 

Jaskier tipped his head back, heart thumping. Geralt didn’t press closer, just stood there, the dull edge of the blade resting in the hollow of Jaskier’s throat. This close, he could see Geralt’s eyelashes. He took a slow, even breath. Geralt’s eyes weren’t just yellow; they were a rich gold. And his hair was more silver than white, and Jaskier wondered at how often he had to dye it, maintain it.

Geralt scoffed, pulling away. “Again.”

Jaskier stumbled in relief, raising his sword. Geralt gestured him onwards, again, and Jaskier swung his blade. Geralt met his clumsy swing with a steady arc of his own, and the vibrations shook his hands. So he swung again, more sure, more eager, and Geralt met him blow for blow. If Geralt had been trying to win, to do anything over than counter each strike, he would have won. Jaskier had no idea what he was doing other than swinging a few feet of steel around, but he was using a sword. They continued their dance, Geralt looking mildly bored the whole time. It was effortless for the other man. Jaskier was certain Geralt could have been reading a book and meeting every swing and strike of Jaskier’s sword. But he wasn’t. 

“No,” Geralt said, abruptly stepping back. “Like this.” And then he swung, and it was a painfully slow motion, because Jaskier brought up his blade to meet Geralt’s and the sound of steel hitting steel echoed around them. 

But he had no idea what Geralt wanted him to do, and the man refused to open his mouth and tell him what he meant. Just an impatient grunt here or there, and the repeated motion. No matter how many times he copied it, Geralt remained unimpressed and frustrated.

“Like this,” he growled, bearing the blade down on Jaskier's. “This,” he said, flexing his arms. 

Jaskier could feel it make a difference against his blade, but what it was, he had no idea. Did it matter? Probably not. He brought his sword against Geralt’s again, flexing them, feeling the vibration run through the swords and Geralt’s smile of relief. And then it was on again. In a few quick strikes, Geralt disarmed him. And then again. And again. Jaskier’s fingers were numb, and his wrist was going to be a mass of ugly bruising afterwards, but he picked his sword up again. 

“How did you learn to do this?” Jaskier asked breathlessly. He flexed his hands.

“Practice,” Geralt said wanly.

Jaskier rolled his eyes, and nearly lost his sword for it when Geralt’s blade crashed against his.

“Pay attention!” he barked, scowling. The openness that had been there moments ago, was lost, buried behind sharp frustration. “You could have lost a hand.”

Jaskier shrugged, only a little apologetic. “You told me they aren’t sharp,” he said, yelping when the flat of Geralt’s blade smacked against his thigh. “I’m trying my best, but you aren’t a very good teacher, I’ll have you know!”

Geralt scoffed. “I suppose you know what qualities teachers ought to have?” he pressed, sword slipping past Jaskier’s to whack him on his forearm. “How many years have you been studying?” Geralt paused, golden eyes giving Jaskier a brisk, cursory once-over that left him feeling exposed and vulnerable all at once. “Twenty? And you’re still here, learning.”

Jaskier growled, swinging his sword at him out of retaliation. He didn’t have a plan. He just wanted Geralt to stop bruising him. Stop insulting him. Geralt deflected each strike easily, like it was child’s play, and it probably was to him. 

“What’re you going to do for a career after this, Jaskier?” Geralt goaded. “Play pretend like a knight in a renaissance fair once a year?”

“Better than living it in the middle of nowhere!” Jaskier retorted, hitting Geralt’s blade when he aimed a blow at a vulnerable calf. “What’s your issue with me, anyway? None of the other students had these problems!”

“They just came out here to look at history, facts! They weren’t interested in playing pretend.”

Jaskier yelped, dodging back from a blow that would have caught him across the waist. “Authenticity isn’t playing pretend!” He yelped, jumping back from another strike. “Would you -” he broke off, feigning to the left to protect his side. “-quit that?”

“When you decide to stop playing at being a Witcher!” Geralt snapped, smacking the flat of his blade against the back of Jaskier’s leg. It wasn’t a brutal strike, despite the speed at which he moved, and the way he was spitting words. It was no harder than any of the other blows during practice. “They’re no different than the Fianna, the myrmidons of Achilles, take your pick but they’re extinct!”

Jaskier desperately blocked Geralt’s thrust, pushing his blade to the side, trying to weave his blade towards Geralt. The other man stepped back in a neat disengage before diving in with another strike that Jaskier narrowly deflected.

“So you read!” Jaskier crowed. “I didn’t think some sawdust for brains carpenter or whatever is it you do would know anything about the classics!”

Geralt growled, low and menacing, and it was nearly enough to stop Jaskier in his tracks. But Geralt was still advancing and they both had dulled weapons in their hands. 

“I read for pleasure, not to write a ten page essay discussing how Achilles’ mourned Patroclus as a brother mourns a brother. And then have to spend eight hours researching it, to prove my point, when the writing’s plain as day.”

Jaskier snorted. “First off -everyone knows they were lovers! I don’t write essays arguing over that, but about whether the gods’ interventions saved them and how it was never about the gods’ but the men! Secondly, and a big secondly here -” Jaskier cut off, leaping out of Geralt’s range as the blow swung towards his ass. He thrust his blade towards him, frustrated, distracted with his thoughts. Geralt batted it away. “It’s about critical thought!”

“Then why don’t you go home and read a book about Witchers instead?” Geralt growled, jabbing at him.

It was all Jaskier could do to parry the blows, but a few dulled stabs pressed against his belly painfully. “Why do you hate me so much?!” Jaskier swept his blade out towards Geralt, and the other man deflected the blow, nimbly knocking it out of Jaskier’s grasp in one fell swoop before stepping into Jaskier’s bubble, both blade points at his throat.

“Stop playing pretend,” Geralt said, glowering. “You aren’t a Witcher. Write your poems, your music, whatever. But stop acting like learning swordsmanship is going to make your little project better. It’s not.”

Jaskier glared back at him. “You know? If I were playing at being a Witcher, I’d be a hell of a better one than you could be. You stomp around here like it’s punishment, and take my genuine interest as an insult. Don’t look at me like that! Witchers weren’t knights, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t human! And sine when did you become the resident expert on these guys?

“You care so much about them? Tell me. I’m here to learn, Geralt. I’m not trying to -to change who they were. I’m here to tell their stories! And if you don’t want to tell me about them? Then don’t fucking talk to me. Don’t waste my time here!”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Geralt said lowly. “You? A Witcher?”

Jaskier bristled. “If someone wanted me to go and kill a monster I’d do it because it’s the sensible thing to do!” 

“Witchers were monsters too. Or did you miss that part in your fancy academic classes?”

Jaskier shoved Geralt’s arm away, moving one of the blades from his neck. “The Eternal Fire wanted us to believe that! Maybe they were just ordinary men who killed monsters? And if they weren’t? So what! These guys waded through wars, monster guts, witches and werewolves, and you want me to forget about them!”

“Yes!” Geralt said, emphatically. 

Jaskier squared his shoulders, knocking Geralt’s other arm away from him. It felt much better to breathe without a sword at his neck. “I bet you I’d make a better Witcher than you any day.”

Geralt scoffed, pulling away to stare at Jaskier like he’d lost his mind. “You’re wrong about that.”

“Vesemir can be the judge,” Jaskier continued, daringly. “There’s dorms here, swords, probably a monster or two lurking about. Nothing a brave Witcher couldn’t bear.”

Geralt whirled away, shaking his head. “No. No.”

“Scared of losing?” he sneered. “You might have the muscles, but you don’t have an iota of the compassion.”

Because what else could fuel a monster hunter? Someone who had been exposed to monsters, someone desperate to protect others, that was who the Witchers were.

Geralt turned around. “Money motivated them, you idiot. It was a job. Something you wouldn’t know anything about.” He dropped the swords, letting them hit the dusty ground. “I’m done.”

“Fuck you too, then,” Jaskier muttered under his breath. 

Geralt didn’t even glance backwards as he leapt over the fence, stomping off to his woodworking project. It wasn’t until Geralt was out of sight that Jaskier let go of a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He focused on breathing, setting his hand across his abdomen where it hurt most. His calf stung something fierce, and his hand was already looking a little green. Hopefully after all this, he wouldn’t have to see Geralt again. Sword fighting was overrated anyway, he decided, limping towards Kaer Morhen.


	4. An Avalanche In Silence

###  Chapter Four, An Avalanche In Silence 

Jaskier spent the next week holed up in the library, finding every scrap of information about the Witchers. It wasn't much, mostly stories and accounts of witnesses. Nothing as informative as Dalgin's journal had been, but Jaskier wasn't about to give up anytime soon. He still ate meals with Vesemir, and went horseback riding every other day, but otherwise he lived and breathed in the library. And best of all? He didn't see Geralt once. His bruises and welts were mostly healed up now, though the one on his hand was back to the yellow and green stage of healing. None of them had been muscle deep, or worse, and he felt he should be more grateful about that than he was currently.

He read about Gweld and Keldar, their rivalry with one another, how they chased contracts across the Continent only to rub it in the other's face. He read about the days before the Eternal Fire existed, how the Witchers' existed to keep monsters from overrunning all of humanity. What they did was unclear, but he started to piece together more of the story. Witchers were ordinary humans until they went through some kind of Trial, and afterwards they were less human -what that meant, exactly, he was clueless on because no one wrote about it. Countries changed names, queens and kings rose and fell from power, but the Witchers were always there until they weren't. Until mobs attacked Kaer Morhen, and there was a slaughter. Other Schools fell, too. And slowly, they seemed to fade into obscurity.

Most of the books with any recorded reference of the Witchers, came from locations near old Witcher schools. Cormac had gathered all the books he could find and brought them to Kaer Morhen several centuries ago, because it was one of the few schools still standing, even if it was a crumbled mess back then. And there were documents about the damage that Kaer Morhen had sustained; weakened walls, failing parts of the roof, and the desolation of her training grounds which still held true to this day. The repair work Vesemir had completed was entirely impressive.

Other books were dedicated to discussing the fine details of Witcher gear, which was entirely unhelpful. They carried two swords, one of silver and one of steel. Apparently the silver was for monsters, and steel for humans. Their armour tended to be light leather, unless they were from the Isles, in which case it was bulkier leather, furs and some degree of plating. But none of it told Jaskier much about what the gear meant. The Isles got colder, of course, so naturally they had fur incorporated. But did it change the way they fought? How were they trained? None of that information was available.

By the end of the week, he was ready for a break. It was more awkward than he expected it to be, to simply tell Vesemir that he was taking one of the horses to Gynvael for the night and he would make his way back sober in the morning. But the older man seemed entirely nonplussed about the event, and Jaskier's mind was a mess of thoughts. He missed his friends in Oxenfurt. He missed singing in front of a crowd, and he was sick and tired of his room and his echoy voice. He'd ordered replacement strings and they'd been delivered in town as well, so he'd be able to restring the lute and hopefully get a decent melody going, but he needed to pick it up from the post office there.

He left during midday, and made it to the post office shortly before it closed for the night. He collected the strings with some relief, tucking them into Pegasus' saddlebags. The bar called to him though, and he was only too happy to return. They let him perform a few songs, and though he hadn't expected any tips, several were thrown his way. Jaskier took a break around supper time, emptying half his water in a few swallows.

"You're… Jaskier, was it?" asked a warm, pleasant voice.

"That's me," he said, smiling warmly.

"You're the new summer student at Kaer Morhen, I hear?"

Jaskier laughed. "Wow, do I stand out that much?" he glanced down at his skinny jeans and slim fitting t-shirt self-consciously. "Or does word just travel this fast?"

The other man smiled sharply. "Word definitely travels fast, around here anyway. There's always new students from Oxenfurt these days, but you're the only one I know who sings in bars. And you have a great voice, by the way."

Jaskier preened. "You should hear me when I have an instrument in hand."

"I'd like to hear you when you have my instrument… in hand," the other man said, grinning lasciviously.

Jaskier laughed, warm and open. He definitely wasn't drunk enough for this. The other man was conventionally handsome, with curly red hair, and bright green eyes. Freckles dotted along his high cheek bones, the mark of a man who spent much of his time under the sun. He wore a charcoal blazer, with forest green pants and sensible running shoes.

"I'm Rhys," he said, offering his hand with a dimpled smile.

And, well, Jaskier fell in love quick and fast, and who could say no to a pair of dimples like that? He shook his hand. Rhys bought him a drink and they chatted about literature, history and the nature of living in a town as small as Gynvael. Rhys had moved to Gynvael about six months ago, and was just getting over being treated like a stranger. He understood the looks everyone kept giving Jaskier, and the way strangers stared daggers at him in an incredibly non-hostile, invasive way. Naturally they spoke of Oxenfurt, and Jaskier's project, how he was the chosen student to study Kaer Morhen. Though it was really the Witchers he was interested in, Jaskier breezed past them as though they were nothing more than the footnote Geralt seemed determined for them to become. Mostly because a small kernel in the back of his mind kept telling him that anyone native to Gynvael might host the same beliefs.

"The Witchers used to live up there," Rhys said, leaning back in his seat, beer loosely held in his hand. "Man, I used to think they were so cool." He gestured vaguely towards Kaer Morhen. "I heard this was the Wolf School, the last remaining safe haven for Witchers before they got attacked a couple hundred years ago. The von Rivia's took over the grounds, last I heard. Is it a decent place up there?"

"You used to think they were cool?" Jaskier asked, taking a drink of his beer. "What changed?"

Rhys shrugged. "You listen to enough stories, you hear things."

Jaskier rolled his eyes. "I'm doing a study on them, please, this is my bread and butter. _What_ stories?"

Rhys leaned forward, green eyes locked onto Jaskier's. "They took kids in payment. Put them through some kind of test; most of them died. Kids! Training to fight monsters." Rhys shook his head, red curls bouncing.

Jaskier set his beer down, perhaps a touch too hard. "They couldn't have taken kids," he reasoned. "Parents would have waged war over that kind of thing."

Rhys shrugged. "What's it matter when you've got six mouths to feed, really? Surely they wouldn't miss one."

Jaskier frowned, tapping his bottle thoughtfully. "There's more to that story, I'd wager. Parents across the continent would have waged war, brought those walls down and taken their children. Maybe children did train," he added, thinking of the dorm rooms, "and it was probably awful, and they were lonely, and maybe some died -it was, what, the 1700's? 1800's? People used to think child labour was well and dandy."

Rhys drained the rest of his beer, Adam's apple bobbing. "Kids fighting monsters." He shook his head. "What's it like at Kaer Morhen?"

"Aren't you allowed up? It's a national historic site."

Rhys waved his hand impatiently. "It's off limits during summer, due to "reconstruction" efforts."

Jaskier thought of Geralt, thought of the way he bristled at strangers, and the work he was doing on the buildings behind Kaer Morhen. He thought of the mysterious Eskel who was apparently patiently restoring the entire collection of books that the library had to offer. He couldn't blame Vesemir, but it must have meant a fair loss of revenue on their part. So Jaskier told Rhys about the magnificent shower, about the old walls, the feel of history pouring out of every nook and cranny and he didn't mention the dorm rooms, or Geralt, even once.

"I hear the old von Rivia is thinking of retiring, he's got one of his nephews up to get him ready to take over," Rhys said, conversationally. "Supposedly he stopped in here last week, it was the talk of the town. I'm sad I missed him."

Jaskier snorted, taking a swig of his beer. "You're not missing out on much, so don't worry about it."

Rhys smiled languidly, leaning across the table. "But I hear he's attractive."

Jaskier sat up, wiggling his shoulders before slumping them in an imitation of Geralt. He did his best to pull of the dead-eyed scowl the man seemed to wear around him. "Hmph." Jaskier laughed, shaking off the pose. "He's hot, you'd have to be dead to miss that, but I've never met a man so antagonistic before! He hated me on first sight, I swear. And he won't lift a finger to help me with research because -get this -I haven't worked a day in my life. He's a boomer at heart."

Rhys laughed. "That sounds awful! Do you at least get on with the older von Rivia?"

Jaskier nodded, relieved. "He's shown me around, and gone out of his way to teach me how to ride horseback. It's actually fun, aside from Geralt."

"I could show you a better time," Rhys said, waggling his eyebrows playfully. "I promise I won't be a broody beefcake with daddy issues, anyway."

Jaskier snorted, grinning in spite of himself. "I don't think he has daddy issues."

"Men like that? Always have daddy issues." Rhys set his hand over Jaskier's, smiling gently. "Let me show you some hospitality, at least."

Jaskier's heart thumped. "I'd like that." He finished the rest of his beer, and they got out of the booth together.

Rhys tugged him along after him, and Jaskier had to skip a few steps to keep pace with him. Rhys paid for their drinks before leading him out of the bar, down the street and to a small, comfortable house. Jaskier figured in a town this tiny, the housing market had to be pretty affordable for someone Rhys' age. It would make for a bonus of living in the middle of nowhere. Rhys unlocked his door, pulling Jaskier in after him. In one swift movement, Rhys kicked the door shut and pressed Jaskier up against the nearest wall, lips ghosting across Jaskier's.

And then:

"You don't know Geralt very well, do you? It doesn't matter."

Jaskier yelped as Rhys abruptly pulled Jaskier around, slamming his head against the wall as he swiftly cuffed Jaskier's hands together.

"Police brutality!" Jaskier yelped, wincing. "Ow, you got me. I give, I give."

Rhys snorted, and there was no mirth to it, only a hollow sound. "We could have had a fun time, genuinely. I am sorry about this, but you're the only bait I have. Lambert's currently in jail, Eskel's off in another country and the Old Wolf never leaves his keep."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Jaskier demanded, glaring at Rhys over his shoulder.

Rhys smiled, and it was all pointy teeth. "Geralt owes me a blood debt. But the bastard won't come out of his tower, except for you apparently, vulnerable student you are. And I'm not stupid enough to go traipsing through Witcher territory."

"You're crazy," Jaskier breathed, eyes widening. "There's no such thing."

Rhys jerked him backwards, and Jaskier stumbled, scrambling to keep on his feet as he was hauled from the entryway into a living room.

"They don't tell you what you're signing up for? How precious." Rhys pinched his cheek before doing a cursory pat down of Jaskier.

Pettily, he tried to kick at him, but Rhys seemed to anticipate his movement. He pulled Jaskier's phone out of his pocket, a smug grin on his face. Jaskier's mind was still reeling, trying to catch up to the fact that this attractive man had apparently planned this as a kidnapping the entire time. Maybe this summer wasn't going to be the best summer. Possibly, it would end up being the worst one. Especially if he died. Jaskier very much wanted to live; he wanted to finish his stupid degree and go around the world performing. He wanted to tell his grandparents to fuck off. He wanted to write the song of the century; he wanted to fall in love; he wanted so many things.

"If you think Geralt will come and rescue me, you're sorely mistaken on that count," Jaskier said, stomach full of dread. If his life depended on it? He was reasonably sure Geralt would let him die.

"Oh, you little idiot. Geralt might not come for _you, _but Vesemir will _send him._ Now, be a dear and smile."__

____

____

Jaskier didn't get a chance to emote before Rhys punched him in the face. Jaskier wasn't unfamiliar with being beaten up, and he fought to blink back the white stars in his vision.

"Now it doesn't look like a sex thing," Rhys muttered under his breath, snapping a picture.

"You thought someone would think it's a sex thing when I'm fully dressed, _hands cuffed behind my back?"_

Rhys scowled, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I didn't ask for your opinion."

"You kind of did when you implied _this was a sex thing!"_

Rhys huffed. "I don't need you to talk for this to go down, Jaskier. I'm more than capable of doing this with you gagged, and if you don't believe me, I will show you."

Jaskier stared at him. He weighed his options. It was right there, on the tip of his tongue, but was it worth the cost of being gagged? Honestly, he had been gagged before, and yes, it had been a sex thing. It wasn't the worst. Definitely not his favourite, though.

 _"That_ sounds like a sex thing," he said, unabashed.

Rhys growled in frustration, and said something in a foreign language, and Jaskier felt something inside of him disappear. Silvery threads of light were pulled from Jaskier, floating in the air, suspended between the two of them. Rhys turned, rifling through a cabinet to pull out an empty water bottle. He twisted the cap off, saying another word in that strange language of his, and Jaskier watched as those silver threads disappeared into the bottle.

"I don't need a running commentary, thank you Jaskier," he said, shoving the bottle back into a drawer. Jaskier's phone pinged and Rhys' face lit up in excitement.

Jaskier opened his mouth to chew him out for invading his privacy, but nothing came out. He tried whispering, yelling, screaming, anything. But there was nothing. No sound. He jerked compulsively with the urge to touch his throat, his hands were bound behind his back and all he got for his effort was aching shoulders. Tears welled up in his eyes. The one thing he'd had all his life, the way he could snark and banter and _argue_ when necessary, and it was gone with a word.

But how? It wasn't possible to just take someone's voice away. Not with any word in the human language.

Unless this was a monster, hunting for Geralt. But if he had a grudge against Geralt, then that must mean Geralt was a Witcher? But that wasn't possible. Magic and monsters didn't exist. No matter how much Jaskier had wanted magic and monsters to be real, they weren't. Witchers weren't real. If Geralt were a real Witcher, and wasn't that a concept, then - then why was he so against Jaskier writing about Witchers as heroes? Unless, of course, he thought he was protecting the last remaining of his kind. Because that was possible, Jaskier realized. If there were only a handful of Witchers left in the world, then drawing attention to their legends and myths could inadvertently bring them grief.

Jaskier closed his eyes. And if Witchers were real, and Geralt were one of them, Jaskier trying to learn how to fight with a sword, boasting that he would be a better Witcher than Geralt, claiming he knew what caused someone to become a Witcher? Would have been offensive, to say the least. Jaskier was only a little sorry for it, because he didn't know. And beyond that? Geralt's attitude was unwarranted, even beforehand. Jaskier stared at Rhys, watching as the man continued to smugly tap away on Jaskier's phone. What kind of monster was he? What could even use magic?

Rhys turned toward him, and there was something predatory and unkind in his eyes, and Jaskier felt vulnerable. His voice was his weapon, it was his defence and comfort. No body could take it from him, he thought. Rhys took a step towards him and Jaskier backed away. He could try running, he supposed, but he was stuck in Gynvael. And voiceless. No one would hear him. He'd have to rely on a neighbour being home, on someone seeing him if he bolted for it and managed to get away. How could you out run magic? Well, there was no better way to learn than by trying.

Rhys stepped toward him again and Jaskier bolted for the front door. Several things occurred simultaneously -the first, being Jaskier collided with the floor after a gust of air sent him flying, and secondly was his realization that the door was closed and his arms tied behind his back. Without hands to slow his fall, the point of impact was entirely on his already aching face.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you," Rhys said, and he sounded like someone who was trying to be reassuring but didn't know how. And he was a liar anyway. He'd stolen Jaskier's voice and punched him in the face without blinking. "You're my precious bait for Geralt." He patted Jaskier's back and Jaskier bristled at the contact.

Rhys hauled him to his feet and Jaskier took the opportunity to spit in the man's face. _Give me my voice back!_ Jaskier tried to say but, while his lips moved, no sound came out.

"I told you I would gag you, and no tasteless jokes, please," Rhys said, wiping the spittle off his face. "There's consequences for actions, Jaskier. Now sit there, and don't worry your pretty head," he said, shoving him towards the couch.

It was deceptively hard, like a rock, and unpleasant in every way to sit there. But he couldn't run. He couldn't prattle on, or egg Rhys into getting distracted. Hands behind his back, Jaskier sat. What else was he supposed to do? His fingers itched. It would be hours before Geralt even managed to get here, and he really didn't want to be trapped in the same room as this sociopath.

"He'll come without weapons," Rhys said, confidently. "I told them if I saw a weapon, I'd slit your throat."

Jaskier shuddered, horrified. He was defenceless. Vulnerable. And there was no where to go, because Rhys had decided he should sit on the couch.

"You're excellent bait, Jaskier, and I am _so_ glad we got to meet tonight. You see, Geralt killed a dear friend of mine. Her name was Renfri. Did he ever mention her?"

Jaskier shook his head mechanically.

"He butchered her, really, in the streets. She asked him to make a choice -her life, or Stregobor's. And he refused to help! Refused! Who does that?" Rhys scoffed, collapsing into the armchair beside Jaskier. "He's a Witcher. It's his job to kill monsters; that's what we created him for. Whether they're fanged, winged, furred or human. Witchers are the best at killing. And Stregobor? He hunted Renfri all her life, one of his men raped her, just because she happened to get bit by a vampire.

"And what does Geralt do?" Rhys shook his head, disgusted. "He cut her down. She was eighteen, a child really." He glanced at Jaskier. "No witnesses, at least not the kind that mattered. Stregobor saw. I heard about it from him, actually. All self-important bluster, fuming how Geralt had ruined the body by burning it. Guaranteeing she can't come back. But she'd never asked to get turned, it just happened to her. She wanted to be human, and vampires, scary as they sound, aren't always evil."

Jaskier swallowed tightly, his heart beating faster. He didn't care about any of this. He was stuck in a room beside a psychopath, monologuing about his eternal pain. Was Rhys a vampire? What did a vampire even look like? Jaskier squirmed, feeling uncomfortably warm. Blood trickled down from his nose or lip, he wasn't sure, but he licked it away reflexively. Bitter iron filled his mouth.

"The man doesn't have a heart," Rhys continued. "I heard she begged him for help, in her final moments. But all he could see was an ugly monster on the outside."

Jaskier leaned his head back against the firm couch, his breath coming faster. He couldn't even beg for his life. He could call out for help. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and while he knew multiple ways to get out of them, he lacked the skill to utilize any of them. Except breaking his thumbs; he'd heard you could get out of handcuffs by doing that, but he wouldn't get far after that. And even with all of Rhys' talking, the man was certain to hear Jaskier's thumb break. He fidgeted, palms sweaty, cuffs tight on his wrists. His shoulders were starting to ache.

Perhaps worst of all was the slow torture of listening to Rhys describe in intimate detail how he would kill Geralt. Jaskier tried not to listen, he did. But for every inch he scooted away, Rhys seemed to move closer. For every word Jaskier managed to not hear, there were ten more he couldn't help imagining. His heart pounded in his chest, beating against his rib cage like it thought it would find escape and reprieve in the frightening reality Jaskier found himself in.

But as the clock on the mantle ticked down the time, Jaskier started to consider a worse possibility than being trapped here for eternity. It was one where Geralt didn't come. Where no one came. Rhys mad enough to do it, to hurt Jaskier in Geralt's place. Not that it would cause the potential-Witcher any distress, they were far from friends, but Jaskier didn't think he could survive torture. His heart thudded, and he squeezed his eyes shut. His worst nightmare wasn't being tortured, it was being abandoned in a small town in the middle of nowhere. Vesemir had a duty to see him free, if he was a Witcher, but he was an old man. Geralt had no such obligation. He could just walk out of Kaer Morhen, lie low for half a day and return saying that he never found Jaskier. Or that Jaskier was already dead when he got there.

Rhys stopped his gruesome story telling to fetch them both a meal. He settled on bringing out a loaf of bread and butter, practically shoving a slice into Jaskier's mouth once it had been buttered. The rest he seemed content to save for himself, savouring each piece like the butter was a gift from the gods. The butter had been rich and creamy, sure, but it sat heavy in Jaskier's stomach. Wrong. Like he was being forced to eat before attending his own funeral. Rhys didn't seem to share the same sentiment though, licking the butter off his fingers. Jaskier shuddered. Part of him wanted to throw up, but mostly he wanted to run; unfortunately there was nowhere to go. 

Rhys fell quiet, and Jaskier sagged in relief. How long had it been? He wiggled his wrists, wincing at the pain in his shoulders. Then, there was a knock on the door and Jaskier froze, eyes wide open. He could see his converse sneakers through the glass coffee table. What a thing to notice. He turned, but Rhys was already halfway to the front door.

_Geralt, don't._ The words were on his lips.

Another knock. Rhys was almost to the door.

_Don't. It's a trap._ Jaskier struggled to his feet. _Don't._

Rhys stretched out his hand and the door swung open, revealing an unarmed Geralt.

"Come in, come in," Rhys said, stepping back, beckoning Geralt in. There was something unsettling in his tone, perhaps it was his murderous intent slipping through. The door swung shut behind Geralt.

And this -this was a situation Jaskier hadn't considered. Standing here, watching Geralt die. Watching Geralt die _because of him._

"Strip," Rhys ordered, voice cold and calculated. "Keep your underwear on, I don't want to see that."

And then they were in the living room, Geralt in nothing but a pair of black trunks. Rhys, smug, ordering Geralt to sit at the other end of the couch. Geralt, sitting. Jaskier sat, his mind an empty whirl of panic. All he could see was Geralt dying. Rhys had it all planned out; there was a room in the back ready, covered with plastic garbage bags and a bone saw. He'd thought it all out. Planned every intimate detail, from the first cut to the last. But he'd never given any indication on what he would do to Jaskier, who would be a witness to this crime. This apparent slaughter. 

_"It's not about humiliating him," Rhys had said. "It's about teaching a lesson."_

Jaskier glanced at Geralt, desperate to convey a silent apology. He didn't know. He couldn't have known.

"Geralt, do you remember Renfri?" Rhys asked, almost conversationally. But there was an unhinged look in his green eyes, and his curls looked wild where they had been tousled hours before.

"Yes," Geralt answered, and there was something sad, nearly resigned, about the way he said it.

"You killed her, instead of Stregobor."

Geralt glared at Rhys. "If you cared so much for her, you should have dealt with Stregobor. He's been obsessed with vampires for years."

Rhys leapt to his feet, shouting a word. But Geralt was faster, knocking the couch over, sending Jaskier tumbling ass-over-head as the couch went up in flames. By the time Jaskier was oriented, the fight was over. Geralt stood over Rhys' body, a bloodied butter knife in hand. At some point, Geralt must have grabbed it off the coffee table and then stabbed it into Rhys' heart. Jaskier blinked dumbly at the scene in front of him. The couch on fire, coughing from the smoke, Geralt wearing only his underwear and holding a bloodied knife. Rhys, bleeding out on the floor, eyes glossy and blank. Empty. 


	5. An Artist On Fire

###  Chapter Five, An Artist On Fire 

Geralt knelt down, wiping the bloody knife off on Rhys' blazer. "He's no better than the rest of them," Geralt said. "Ready to condemn, but too much of a coward to stand up to Stregobor." He shook his head, patting down the body. 

Jaskier turned away quickly, his stomach rolling at the sight. None of his choices were all that great in terms of what he could look at -a flaming couch, which smelled atrocious, or whatever Geralt was doing to the body. A body that had very much been alive not long ago. And how had Geralt even managed to kill him? In seconds, no less. He'd flipped the couch, and what, sprung off it, snatching the knife and driving it through Rhys' chest? He supposed it was possible. He figured he should feel grateful, but all he felt was numb. And mildly horrified.

"Here," Geralt said, uncuffing Jaskier. "We need to leave."

Jaskier pushed past him, because there were several things he needed first. He stepped past Rhys, avoiding the flaming couch and its putrid smoke to reach the end table. He pulled the drawer open, grabbing the bottle full of his voice. If he uncapped it, would his voice just return? As simple as that? He snatched his phone from the table it was resting on. Geralt threw the front door open as the fire alarm went off. Pegasus was standing beside Geralt's motorcycle, but before Jaskier could even reach his mount Geralt had untethered him and given him a pat on the rump with the order to go home. Jaskier tried to protest, but his voice was still in his hands and Geralt hadn't noticed. He shoved a helmet onto his head, tugged him onto the bike, and then they drove through the village like Geralt hadn't just killed a man. Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt's middle, bottle clutched in his hands like it was his only lifeline. And really, it was. Because who would he be without his voice? Life without song wasn't much of a life for a man who always dreamed of being a musician. 

"Gynvael isn't a stranger to odd mysteries," Geralt said over the roar of the bike. He paused as the zoomed out of the village, drawing no notice in particular. It would be hours yet before someone noticed the smoke, and found the body, but Jaskier couldn't help but feel that the roar of his motorcycle would give him away. But what did Jaskier know about Witchers? And surely that's what Geralt was. How else could he have killed Rhys so easily? "You must have questions," Geralt added after a prolonged silence.

Jaskier nodded against his back, but clinging to his voice tightly. But the words wouldn't come.

"Shock can he a hell of a thing," Geralt said, and his voice was almost kind. "You shouldn't have had to see that." He sighed, and it wasn't with frustration or anger. "This is why I don't like students. Not telling them about us? You could have died because of it."

And while Jaskier agreed, he didn't appreciate the reminder. His hands shook around the bottle, plastic crinkling under his grasp, barely detectable over the roar of the motorcycle. He didn't think Rhys would have killed him; it would have been torture, the slow removal of digits one after another to see who he could draw out of Kaer Morhen. And if that had failed, Rhys had bigger targets in mind. Jaskier shuddered. If he wept during their ride, no one could see his tears in the night, and without a voice, there was no one to see the way his lips hovered over the words 'I almost died' and the terrifying reality of it. He was a college student, here for holiday. And while it was the most exciting adventure he'd been on, while Geralt had saved him, the creeping horror of Rhys loomed in the back of his mind. By the time they returned to Kaer Morhen, the moon was high in the sky, and Jaskier's eyes were swollen but dry.

Jaskier stumbled off the bike, and Geralt gave him a steadying hand. "Why are you carrying this around with you?" Geralt asked, eyeing the water bottle.

Jaskier met his gaze helplessly. He opened his mouth to answer the question, lips forming all the right words, but no sound. He looked down at his voice sadly, and held it out to the Witcher. What did Jaskier know about magic-voice-stealing-spells? Nothing. He wouldn't risk opening the bottle and having his voice just disappear into the wilderness, never to return. He couldn't bear the thought that it would join the wind in howling on blustery days, or wailing during storms. It was his voice, and it belonged with him. No one else. Jaskier shrugged uncomfortably under Geralt's scrutiny, under his widening gaze, and looked away because what else was there for him? To stand around like a loon, looking sad and miserable, because he had lost the one thing he valued most? No, thank you. His heart felt like breaking, but he didn't have the freedom to feel it right now. His loss and grief he could put aside for later, to drown himself in it when there wasn't an audience.

"Let's go see Vesemir," Geralt said, voice uncomfortably gentle. It was entirely unlike him, and Jaskier hated him for it.

They found Vesemir sitting in the dining room, a roaring fire at his back. Jaskier hadn’t even noticed how cold he was, but he was grateful to bask in some of the warmth. 

“It was Rhys,” Geralt said with no preamble. “He must have been following me from Blaviken. And he appears to have taken Jaskier’s voice.” 

Jaskier held the water bottle out, looking between the two men. For an answer, a solution of some kind. They were Witchers, after all. Though neither of them had confirmed it. He pulled out his phone, activating text-to-talk for perhaps the first time in his life. He tapped at the keyboard.

“You’re both Witchers?” his phone read for him.

Vesemir and Geralt exchanged guarded looks.

“Normal people don’t just kill people with butter knives Geralt,” his phone read out. “Are you both Witchers?”

“Yes,” Vesemir said, turning to face Jaskier. “Yes, we are.”

Geralt hmm’d behind Vesemir, golden eyes on Jaskier. 

“Despite what tonight has shown you, it was never our intention to put you at risk. Seldom are we needed these days,” Vesemir added. 

“There’s four of us on this continent alone,” Geralt said. 

“More than enough. But for Kaer Morhen to survive, to grow into something bigger than this shadowed self, we need money. These days we don’t get paid much, unless it’s a haunting.”

“If I open this will my voice come back to me?” Jaskier wrote, staring at their faces hopefully.

“It should,” Geralt said. 

“And if it doesn’t?” Jaskier wrote, concerned. It wasn’t something he was willing to risk, to hedge on an educated guess. 

Geralt shrugged. “It’s up to you, I guess. Either you open it and you can talk, or you never open it at all and never talk again.”

“And if you don’t regain your voice,” Vesemir said, voice heavy, “we will make sure you get it back.”

Jaskier looked at the silver threads looping through each other that filled his little water bottle. As simple as that, huh? Jaskier twisted the cap off in one motion, watching as the silvery thread poured out. And then they sprang vibrantly into the air, and down Jaskier’s throat, like they’d never left at all.

“What the actual fuck?” Jaskier said, delighted by the sound of his own voice. His career and dreams weren’t destroyed after all, and the worry about it felt a little silly now. “You’re Witchers? For real? How?”

Geralt sighed, loud and hard, looking upwards as though he were praying for assistance from a higher being. Vesemir rubbed his temples, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he’d been expecting this. Possibly even waiting for it. Jaskier was certain he would have reached the conclusion that they were Witchers eventually, but this was more than a surprise. And as elated as he was to know he had subjects he could interview and interrogate, he wished he would have figured it out on his own. Bypass the entire being taken as a hostage / bait scenario and simply put two and two together. 

“There’s a Trial,” Vesemir said. “Boys take it when they’re young.”

“The kind of boys that aren’t wanted,” Geralt said quietly, the crackling of the fire nearly drowning out his words. “Some of orphaned, some of us given away.”

“Others repay a life debt with blood of their own, more often than not,” Vesemir continued. “It’s a risky Trial. Most die.”

“We haven’t done one in nearly a century,” Geralt said, arms crossed. “Not since Lambert.”

“People give you their kids?”

“A hundred years ago, yes,” Vesemir said, and he sounded haunted. “Too many mouths to feed. Too many kids to keep track of.” He shook his head, and there was regret behind his eyes. An old man who’d seen too many children die, who’d borne witness to it in the name of the greater good. 

A greater good he probably hadn’t chosen to serve.

“Wait. How old does that make you?”

Geralt leaned against the table, a distant expression on his face. “A hundred and ten? Give or take.”

“Much older.”

A hundred years old! They’d lived through so much history; breathed it in, fought in its wars, or maybe avoided them entirely. A century of experience. Of monsters they’d fought, of lovers they’d held, and lives they’d saved. It was a dizzying concept.

“Are there monsters you fight? Still?”

“Rarely.” Geralt scoffed disdainfully. “You saw tonight; witches, sorcerers and vampires are a dime a dozen. Wraiths and their ilk show up sometimes, but good luck avoiding the cameras that follow them. Sometimes a werewolf.”

“We’re waiting for our chance to fade from time,” Vesemir said gravely. “We’ve watched so many monsters disappear in this world. What place have we in it?” He shrugged. “I think the least we can do is preserve what history and legacy we have for other generations.”

“I saw we let it disappear,” Geralt countered. “There won’t be a place for us in stories, ballads or history books. There never has been before. Our legacy started with monsters, and it should die with them.”

Jaskier looked between them, sensing the rift between them. Vesemir had lived a long life, had seen and fought creatures Geralt had probably never heard of. But Geralt was trapped in this awkward half-life, unable to truly fulfill his purpose, unable to live normal human life. And here Jaskier came waltzing in, determined to bring a spotlight to Kaer Morhen and the Witchers who had lived and died here. 

“Honor the dead,” Jaskier said. “I just want to honour your dead. The stories and sacrifice, the bloodshed… I don’t want to expose you. Besides, no one would believe me anyway. I can write it all as history, as myth and legend. But I don’t think the Witchers should be forgot.”

“And why the hell not?”

Jaskier looked up into Geralt’s golden eyes, his scowling face. “Because it’s your legacy. The world won’t always need monster hunters -hasn’t needed any, in quite some time from the sounds of it. But they’ll carry your stories on. If Kaer Morhen is just another castle in a long line of European destinations, there’s nothing to set it apart. But if it becomes known that it was home to monster slayers? Everyone will want to see it. They’ll picture brave knights fighting dragons, griffins, and they’ll be inspired. People will remember Kaer Morhen for just that.”

Geralt shook his head, annoyed. “It’s not true though. None of that -Witchers are just glorified monsters themselves. We get monster DNA shoved inside us, to make us fight better. And then we go out and take payment in whatever form we get, except you can’t live off it, so it’s just a highly risky hobby. If people knew about us, they’d be horrified.”

“Then let me tell them about you!” Jaskier said, stepping towards the both of them eagerly. “Let me convince them you aren’t monsters. Give me the chance to tell the story of the Witchers of Kaer Morhen, the way you want people to remember you.”

“Of course,” Vesemir said, entirely agreeable. “Geralt?”

Geralt seemed to consider for a long moment, staring into the distance. “If he can convince Eskel and Lambert? Sure.”

Jaskier clapped his hands together delightedly, but slowed when he noticed Vesemir’s pained expression.

“Lambert? You would put him through that?”

Geralt shrugged. “It’s their legacy too.”

“I really don’t mind,” Jaskier said, grinning. “I can be very convincing, charming some would say.”

“Charm with Lambert won’t get you far,” Geralt laughed. “You let me know when he agrees, and we can go from there.”

Which was why two weeks later, Jaskier found himself sitting on a hard plastic chair in the middle of a jail waiting for an unfamiliar face to join him. Except it was an entirely unfamiliar face, because he’d seen pictures on TV several times of the famed MMA fighter who was serving time for assault. It was a light sentence, because the attacker was a vampire, according to Vesemir but there was no way to point that out to a judge. It had been Lambert’s word against his attacker’s, and without being able to call him a vampire in court, Lambert had been sentenced for two years. 

Jaskier had called ahead, and even written a letter with only no help from Vesemir or Geralt. Apparently it would have been breaking the terms of their wager if Jaskier got help, but he didn’t mind. It hadn’t been hard to track Lambert down. Vesemir had handled one phone call to introduce Jaskier, ti make Lambert aware that Jaskier knew about Witchers which was apparently a rarity worthy of a phone call, but beyond that he had been unwilling to let a hand. And between organizing the visit and sending a letter, Jaskier found himself nervous. He knew less about Lambert than the other man knew of him. It was unfair.

The man shuffled out in an orange jumpsuit, two scars running down his face. He didn’t appear entirely pleased to be there, but as he sat across from Jaskier, a smug smile revealed itself. “Geralt sent you?” He gave Jaskier a cursory once-over. “He doesn’t meet people.”

“We made a wager,” Jaskier said, smiling charmingly. 

“A wager?” Lambert’s brows rose. “What’s the bet?”

Jaskier leaned in. “Let me make Witchers famous. Let me make Kaer Morhen famous for being the last, and only, standing stronghold that housed and taught Witchers.”

Lambert laughed. “Fuck. No.”

Jaskier’s heart sank but he refused to give up. “Not you specifically -but the history, the legacy, someone should preserve it!”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, kid,” Lambert said, leaning back. “Geralt didn’t get you to take a bet; he got you to take a loss. Let the world forget about us.”

“Why?” 

Lambert huffed, crossing his arms. “My father liked to beat my mom, and when I was old enough to stand between them, he’d hit me around. One day, he leaves, gets lost in the wilderness, drunk out of his mind. I hope’d he never come back. Instead? Fucker almost gets eaten by a cockatrice. Witcher saves him; old man decides I’m a worthy sacrifice. You know what Witchers do to kids?” he demanded, brown eyes locked onto Jaskier’s.

“No, but please tell me.” Because no one else would.

“It’s agony, getting the injections. And if you survive it, which I did, I watched five others die. And then the training starts -and I watched my best friend get crushed into nothing by a troll -and the training never stops, really. Because if it does? You die. What’s my lot in life? Violence?”

“Seems to have worked for you so far,” Jaskier said, not meaning the orange jumpsuit and the vampire fiasco. 

“And where would I be without all this?” Lambert demanded. “Because none of this is what I chose. I put my fists where they go to good use and I get paid for it. No body touches me in this place, for the same reason. So what the hell do those bastards deserve to be remembered for?”

“You deserve to be remembered for it,” Jaskier replied easily. “Everything you gave up. How many people would be dead without you?” He held up his hand to forestall an argument. “I’m not trying to trivialize or demean what you’ve gone through, but that’s… that’s what heroes are made of!”

Lambert guffawed, drawing the eyes of guards and prisoners alike. Jaskier flushed under their scrutiny, under the intensity of his humour.

“Hero? That’s what you think I am?”

“What else would you be?” Jaskier asked, exasperated.

Lambert stifled a laugh into his fist, coughing it off. “Oh, I dunno? Let me see… Abomination, blasphemy, cursed, monster -”

“Do monsters save people’s lives?” Jaskier demanded, frustrated. “Truthfully, you would know this answer a lot better than I would. You ever see a monster save someone else’s life? See them get belittled and kicked when they’re down and then go out and do it all over again? Because that’s what I see.”

Lambert stared at him, considering. 

“Dude,” he said, after a great pause. “I just want to graduate and become a musician. I want to travel the world and wow people with my skills, and I’ve decided there’s nothing at Kaer Morhen that could inspire me except Witchers.”

Lambert snorted. “It’s just a pile of dust and rocks. What were you hoping to find?”

“The promise of free food, a vacation, and the dreamiest shower imaginable weren’t something I could pass up on.”

“That sounds like a pretty sweet deal.”

“I’m five months away from graduating, and if I have to write about boring, dusty rock I will cry myself to sleep every night. What’s the point of a vacation without adventure?”

“You can’t tell anyone we exist,” Lambert said warily. “I don’t want people treating me… special.”

“I wouldn’t. It’s going to be a fictional, mythological lens.”

“And you can’t allude to how we became this way. When we die? That’s it. No more.”

“I can do that,” Jaskier agreed. “I’m not in charge of your destinies or anything like that. I - I just want your kind to be remembered, for the good things they did.”

“Tell the bad stuff, too. Tell them how some of us were bastards, mean and cocky, and willing to use humans as bait or worse to kill a monster. Not all of us were heroes; not all of us should be remembered like one.”

Jaskier held out his hand. “I would be honoured to write about the assholes and the heroes.”

Lambert eyed his hand. “I’m doing this only because it’ll piss Geralt off, alright? You can tell him I said it.” They shook hands. 

Winning Eskel’s seal of approval was ten times easier. He got his number for Lambert and phoned him before he was even escorted out of the prison, to start explaining his project only for Eskel to interrupt him and tell him that preserving history was his living and to wild. He walked outside to where Geralt was surreptitiously leaning against his motorcycle, only to grin and break the news that while Lambert was an asshole, he was a loveable one. 

“He specifically told me to tell you that he agreed just to piss you off.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Of course he did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have struggled more with this chapter than I expected to. Also, much to my relief, next chapter we get to move towards the fun stuff!
> 
> Thank you for the lovely comments! <3


	6. I'm Obsessed, I'm Embarrassed

###  Chapter Six, I'm Obsessed, I'm Embarrassed 

They woke Jaskier every morning at dawn, forced him to run a lap around Kaer Morhen and then it was breakfast. And breakfast was always the same: oatmeal, fruit and lots of bacon. Not that he was complaining about it, exactly, but oatmeal didn't excite him. It wasn't what he looked forward to ravenously devouring after being forced to spend an hour in the cold, damp mornings, running uphill and downhill several times over again. What was perhaps more infuriating was that Geralt jogged -jogged! -along beside him. Stopping to catch his breath wasn't allowed -well it was, it wasn't as though they could force him to keep running, but he had to contend with Geralt's smug face -so he had to learn how to pace himself. In the beginning, he threw up several times, and practically crawled to the front doors, his legs shaking like jello and his lungs burning. It didn't get better. After a lazy breakfast, and Jaskier knew it had to be one by the way in which Geralt inhaled food and sat around reading news articles over the dining room table, it was to the stables.

Looking after Pegasus was suddenly a new responsibility they expected him to adhere to -from mucking out his stall, grooming him and checking his hooves. And then it was an hours' worth of riding, until they had passed the training ground and the worn down towers of Kaer Morhen and ventured to the lakeside where monsters once roamed. Where Geralt wordlessly handed him leather-bound book about monsters, where Jaskier proceeded to be quizzed on everything he thought he'd ever known about monsters. In other circumstances, where Jaskier had read and quizzed people, they had been his paramours who he read poetry to over a romantic picnic with a lakeside view and this was unfortunately nothing like it. It might have been tolerable if he thought he could get a kiss from Geralt as a reward, and while it was surprising, it wasn't that surprising. Jaskier had two working eyes.

After their decidedly awful book reading and quiz, they would ride back to Kaer Morhen where Jaskier was expected to stable, feed and brush Pegasus down before heading inside for a light snacking with Vesemir who would hand him a new book. Each night Jaskier had three tomes to work through, and the following day, a quiz or seven to stumble through exhausted down to his bones. When lunch and quizzes on potions, poisons and herbs were done, it was time to join Geralt at the training grounds for sword lessons. Jaskier felt as clumsy as a newborn deer when they clashed swords, but it was strangely invigorating and the highlight of his day. Whether because it was the one time in his days where Geralt wasn't full of scowls or smug superiority, he couldn't say. But the other man seemed more relaxed, and was kinder with his instructions. So they fought, sword against sword, high arching strikes, and low defensive parries trading. There was a music in the clang of steel against steel, in shuffled footsteps and sharp breaths. Geralt didn't go easy on him, per se, but his blows were always delivered with the flat edge of his sword, and even when he decided to drive the point in, it barely left a bruise. Sometimes it did, like when Jaskier lost grip on his blade and Geralt's sword walloped against his ass three times in rapid succession.

"You're dead," Geralt said flatly, eyeing Jaskier skeptically. "Witchers don't drop their sword. Your sword is your life; no sword, no life."

"Not all of us have been studying the blade since we were children," Jaskier countered, picking his sword up.

"This is one of the easiest, most basic Witcher coda," Geralt retorted, blade smacking against Jaskier's impatiently. "A Witcher without a sword is dead."

At first Geralt's motions were slow and calculated, easy to block, easier still to read. It didn't mean it was easy to counter! Jaskier felt clumsy and awkward, swinging the sword around. Sometimes he moved too slowly, and sometimes too quickly. And each blow he missed, Geralt rewarded him with a cocky twitch of his lips and a swat of his blade against a vulnerable, undefended Jaskier. There was more footwork involved than Jaskier had expected, and each time he stepped too far, Geralt brushed his sword against his leg in reprimand. The man had no sympathy for a newbie. Sword fighting took up the majority of his afternoons, and it was exhilarating. Jaskier wondered if this was how men and their guns felt? But he preferred the intimate and personal nature of swordplay, the way when he managed to block a blow, their blades sang with ringing steel and crackling energy. But his arms ached well into the evenings after, and no amount of hot showers or massage oil completely eased it.

Evenings were his one reprieve, if you could call them that. A hot, large dinner of meat and veggies -pleasantly seasoned, Geralt pointed out, compared to how bland he ate in the early 1900's. It was disturbing to picture the man -bullheaded, quietly smug, and full of himself -as someone who was over a hundred years old. Vesemir, with his easy-going nature, and the gray in his stubble and hair, seemed like he could be ages older. But Jaskier didn't press, and Vesemir never volunteered. After dinner, Jaskier took a long shower and delved into studying the books they'd tasked him with. When his mind wandered, when his brain was chock full of words and monsters, he picked up the lute. He'd taken his time getting it tuned, and maintaining it from there, he found that it played beautifully. Not too different from a guitar, despite the extra strings and steps. He sang in solitude, shutting his mind off, winding down for the night. He imagined a world where the Witchers were known as heroes, the way Superman and Batman were, where kids argued about who would win in a fight -Geralt or Lambert? Jaskier would bet Geralt, every time. Sure, Lambert had his MMA experience -and prison experience -but Geralt exuded a calm, competency that Jaskier was willing to bet gave him an edge his opponents didn't expect. One look at Lambert and you knew to expect him to fight dirty, and mean. 

And then, Jaskier went to sleep and started the whole hellish cycle all over again. By the end of two weeks, he wanted to call it off. He hated getting up at the crack of dawn, hated throwing up bile, hating the way his lungs heaved and burned and Geralt just ran laps around him. But he liked reading about the potions that were integral to Witchers’ livelihoods, and about the monsters they had fought to extinction and even the ones who weren’t quite gone yet. And he was attached to the hot, sweaty afternoons where he got smacked around by Geralt. And if he sometimes wished they wore less clothes, or that the gleam in Geralt’s eye meant something else entirely, well it was a secret he would take to his grave. At least, he reasoned, it wasn’t feelings he was developing, just lust. 

Then, one day in the middle of June, a letter came. A request for help from a sorcerer in need, and Jaskier woke up at dawn to find Geralt packing a bag, going over potion supplies with Vesemir. 

“What’s going on?” Jaskier asked blearily, dressed for his morning run in short-shorts and a t-shirt. 

“Got a job,” Geralt said gruffly, stuffing a rather large, dangerous looking knife into his backpack.

“Let me come with you,” Jaskier said, stifling a yawn. His pulse quickened at the thought of an adventure -an actual one, that he was willingly signing up for.

Geralt turned to him, brows furrowed. “You might have forgotten, Jaskier, but you’re just playing at being Witcher. You aren’t one.”

Jaskier stiffened at the blow, refusing to give a single inch. “Don’t be absurd,” he said, offended. “I don’t want to fight a monster. I just want to observe!”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “No.”

“Take him with you,” Vesemir said, handing a belt of potions over. “Jaskier can watch Roach, take witness statements. It’ll be good for the both of you to get out of here for a few hours.”

Jaskier grinned, and then grinned wider at the sight of Geralt’s beautiful scowl. 

Vesemir sighed heavily. “Try not to kill one another.”

Geralt snorted. “He couldn’t kill me if he tried.”

Jaskier so badly wanted to take it as a personal challenge. “I could try,” he said, contemplatively. “Poison your meals, sabotage Roach, bribe someone else to do the dirty work.”

“Stab me in the back, you mean?”

“No,” Jaskier said, brightly, turning to go upstairs. “Just attempting to murder you with brains, not brawn. Because I -” and he paused for effect here, bowing with a grand flourish - “know where my strengths lie.”

“Fuck off,” Geralt said, and Jaskier thought he hadn’t imagined the curve of a smile on his lips before hurrying to his room.

He didn’t doubt that if he took too long that Geralt would leave without him. He hopped into a pair of jeans, hastily yanking on a University of Oxenfurt hoodie. He hurriedly dabbed deodorant on, ran a comb through his hair, and paused long enough to catch his reflection in the mirror. Bright blue eyes, a mess of auburn hair combed into order, and a smackering of peach fuzz across his jaw. He hated it, but he didn’t have time today. Not if he didn’t want Geralt to abandon him. Making a groan of protest, to himself, to his time constraints, he rushed back downstairs to find Geralt already outside and about to get on Roach.

“You won’t lose me that quickly!” Jaskier shouted, picking up his shoes in one movement as he raced outside. “Hey, Geralt! Geralt! Wait!”

He practically threw himself onto the other man’s back as he started Roach. Geralt heaved a sigh of long-suffering that Jaskier resented. He shoved his converses on, took the proffered helmet and wrapped his arms around Geralt’s middle with the conviction of a stubborn goat who would not leave well enough alone, thank you. Because he wasn’t letting Geralt win this fight. No. And he would not be left in the dark to wonder at what monsters really looked like, sounded like. They arrived in a town only about twice the size of Gynvael much to Jaskier’s sorrow. Rinde wasn’t much to look at it, but it was a nice change of scenery.

“You said a Witcher without his sword is dead, but I don’t see any on you.”

Geralt fixed him with a flat, cold stare. “Yeah, because walking around with a sword on your back doesn’t attract any attention at all.”

Jaskier winced.

“They’ve been glamoured; mortals can’t see them. Had to start getting every blade enchanted in order to modernize.”

Jaskier followed after him to a surprisingly hipsterish coffee shop. Somehow, Geralt felt out of place here. Despite his neatly shaven stubble, his hair loosely tied back, and his leather jacket and black jeans, he didn’t seem to fit in. And other patrons noticed. They gave him a wider berth; some offered only lingering glances, eyes flicking up and down, and deciding to move on rather than flirt a little. Geralt didn’t seem to notice it -or if he did, he was entirely indifferent. But he walked to the counter and bought one black coffee and then turned to sit at an occupied table. The barista eyed Jaskier with interest, and he ordered a cappuccino before edging over towards Geralt and his friend.

Black tresses flowed past her shoulder, and bright violet eyes caught Jaskier off guard. She wore a sharp black blazer with peacock feather designs embroidered through it, she wore it as though it were a suit of armor. Her cleavage sat there, tantalizing, teasing, but Jaskier knew better than to try. She leaned forward, resting her hand on Geralt’s and Jaskier abruptly wondered if he’d tagged along all this way just to crash a date.

“Yenn,” Geralt said, and his voice was warm and kinder than Jaskier thought possible.

“Geralt,” she said, and something in her gaze softened. “Tell me, who’s your friend?” She glanced at Jaskier, a cursory skim that said she didn’t like what she’d seen.

“He’s not my friend. Kaer Morhen’s new student and my… apprentice, for lack of a better word.”

“Djinns are dangerous business for boys,” Yenn said, her eyes on Jaskier.

“I’m just here to observe,” Jaskier said, forcing cheer into his words. They felt wooden, and his tongue thick and clumsy. “Not participate.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” Yenn answered archly. “Oh look, your coffee’s ready.”

Jaskier sat down at the small, crowded table, unfortunately between them. The barista set down Geralt’s plain black coffee, and Jaskier eagerly took his cappuccino. It had been months since he’d last had a sip of coffee worth drinking. The Witchers seemed to like theirs darker and stronger than even he could stand.

“So it’s a djinn?” Jaskier asked, taking a sip of his heavily sweetened drink. “Like grant you three wishes kind of djinn?”

Geralt pulled his hand back. “Only far more dangerous than you’re thinking. They’re rather furious about being kept sealed in bottles or lamps for a few hundred years.”

“And without a strong sorcerer or sorceress to keep a leash on them, they go a little mad,” Yenn added. “Can’t say I blame them.”

“There’s one here?” 

Yenn glanced at Jaskier, mouth curling in distaste. “I strongly believe so, yes,” she said, turning to Geralt. “I’d like your help with this.”

Jaskier takes another drink, uncomfortable. If Geralt had only said he was meeting a lover, Jaskier would have backed off. The allure of a monster was a powerful thing, he admitted to himself, but this wasn’t his business. He could have been at Kaer Morhen playing his lute, composing new songs, and simply enjoyed an afternoon off. Between the two of them, there was no way he would get within ten feet of a djinn. All hope of sneaking after them, watching from a distance were dashed. Even if he could trick Geralt, he felt that Yenn would know. 

“You have it,” Geralt said, draining the last of his coffee as he got to his feet.

Yenn rose as well.

“Don’t follow us,” Geralt said, giving Jaskier a reproachful glance. “Do whatever you’d like in the meantime.”

Jaskier grinned, shooing at them. “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting a date. Go, go. Enjoy yourselves.”

Geralt’s eyebrows rose; Yenn glared daggers at him. So maybe they weren’t dating then? He smiled his best sunny little grin at them. 

“Go have fun, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Geralt groaned, rolling his eyes before walking out. Yenn followed him not long after. Jaskier exhaled, slouching into his seat. Well, that was something then. Although picturing Geralt and her together was… a challenge. She seemed like the kind of woman who liked rich men, the kind who would give her whatever she wanted. Maybe she’d grown bored of that lifestyle though, when she found Geralt. Jaskier dragged a hand through his hair. What did it matter to him? He was just here as a wayward student. He finished his drink at his own pace before taking a walk around the town. 

He checked out the library, the local movie theatre which was closed in the afternoon, and meandered down to the tourism centre as they called it. It was located on the furthest edge of the city, if you could call it that, and Jaskier was eager to keep his mind occupied for however much longer it would take Geralt and his not-girlfriend to find the djinn. He hated not being there, but he could grill them both about the details after. Next trip he wouldn’t be so easily dissuaded. There was a large map discussing the history of the area, how Lake Lamore hadn’t always existed until a meteor crashed into it three hundred years ago. Jaskier walked around the room to the next poster, proudly displayed beside a gleaming green jar. 

“Oh.” Jaskier blinked, doubling back to the info-graphic.

Fifty years ago divers had gone searching for samples from the meteor and found this odd jar, sealed tight. Over time, it had become something of a city relic that they advertised. In fact, they sold miniatures of it on the counter. Another info-graphic above the miniatures described them as biodegradable, healthy for the nature and full of fertility charms that couples would take and throw into the Lake Lamore in pursuit of a good blessing. Jaskier turned back to eye the jar.

What were the odds? Nah. He shook his head. There was no way. Geralt was a Witcher, surely he could sense magic. But he and Yenn had left, headed away from here. He glanced at the map; at a guess, they’d headed towards the lake. But what they were searching for was right here. Jaskier glanced at the teller, a teenager playing some app on their phone. There was no way they would miss the sound of breaking glass. Except…

“Do you have a bathroom here?” Jaskier asked, hurrying over to the counter. 

The teenager blinked slowly, dark circles under their eyes. They pointed to the left corner, and Jaskier bolted in that direction as though he truly were in need of the restroom. As he walked down the hall, he found what he had been looking for. A fire alarm. He glanced around, and gave a relieved sigh when he didn’t see any cameras. It wouldn’t have mattered if he did though, he didn’t have a back-up plan. He lifted the glass and pulled before stepping into the men’s room and locking the door.

He could hear the teenager cursing, shouting for him to evacuate the building before exiting. Jaskier stepped out, raced to the display and kicked the glass in. He pulled out the jar, tucking it underneath his arm before fleeing the building. He spotted the teenager a few steps away, phone pressed to his ear, and Jaskier walked towards the lake. If he was lucky, he would meet Geralt and Yenn on their way back and not interrupt their date. He didn’t buy their whole story about it not being a date; not with the way they spoke to each other. But Jaskier was so caught up in his thoughts, that he tripped. It was an unfortunate accident, truly. The root came out of nowhere. Jaskier fell, throwing his arms out to protect himself, and heard the jar shatter. 

“Oh no,” Jaskier whispered, pulling upright, shaking the debris from his shirt. He winced; several pieces had gotten caught in his skin, and ceramic was a bitch.

He pushed himself to his feet, fingers catching on a hard cork. He frowned, picking it up and -oh, it was the seal they’d mentioned. He winced. First he pulls a fire alarm, breaks a display and now he’s destroyed the town’s priceless relic recovered from the bottom of a lake. And all he has to show for it is a seal and some ceramic shards in his chest. They only hurt when he breathed, really, so it was probably fine. And then there was a great gust of air and Jaskier fell back, yelping when his head collided with a tree trunk. The world wobbled for a moment, and then straightened, and he found himself staring at a great smoky, opaque figure. The djinn. So much for no monsters, huh.

Well, no point in letting three perfectly good wishes go to waste, right? Jaskier pushed himself to his feet, staring at the monstrous floating orb. “Djinn! I wish for Valdo Marx to be struck down by apoplexy! For my second wish -”

The orb rushes at him, and Jaskier had only a second to gasp before the orb flew towards him, an incorporeal hand shoving him against the tree, wrapped around his neck. Jaskier had enough time to realize he was dying, as he feels his throat constrict, tighter and tighter. 

The rest was a bit of a blur. 

Geralt shouted, lunging at it with a sword that didn’t so much as pierce the beast. It sort of bounced off it, really. Jaskier struggled for breath, black spots dotting his vision. Yenn shouted something, a word Jaskier didn’t understand in a language he’d never heard and the monster dropped him. The seal in his hand rolled down the path a ways. Jaskier gasped for breath, clutching at his throat, feeling blood pooling between his hands. He was dying. Oh god. He was dying for real this time. The orb buffeted itself at Yenn, and she roared something back at it, and it withered under her before renewing its struggle. Geralt swung his blade once more, and with a simple push of wind, Geralt rolled to the side, clumsy boot crunching the seal.

So much for leaving anything of the priceless relic for the town to have.

“This reminds me of the last time we did this!” Geralt shouted, laughing. He drew a symbol in the air and a wave of fire rolled forward, and forward, growing bigger as the djinn wrapped it around itself. “I wish quen could put fires out as easily as it starts them!”

“I didn’t come here for a repeat!” Yenn yelled. “Jaskier, make your wishes!”

But he couldn’t. He could barely move, and he squeezed his throat tighter, feeling the flow of blood slow. 

“Geralt!” she called. “I can’t hold it on my own and heal him at the same time.”

“Go!” Geralt barked, diving back in at the djinn. He formed another sign in the air and the next fiery blow from the djinn resulted in a puff of smoke going up as it reverted to just a ball of air.

Yenn rushed over to him, and Jaskier winced when he heard the ceramic shattering under her booted feet. His throat ached. She set her hands on his, heedless of the blood and spoke words in that magical, lilting language he didn’t understand. And then the pain was gone.

She rejoined Geralt to fight the djinn, and Jaskier was alarmed to see Geralt was bleeding and breathless. It looked like he had been pummeled half to death. He sagged against the tree in relief. The two bantered between each other, dodging blows and casting spells at it like they’d been doing this for years. Maybe they had. Jaskier suddenly felt wholly out of place.

“What did you even want to do with a djinn this time?” Geralt asked, leaping away from a gust of air that pinned Jaskier further against the tree. 

“I’d wish for this connection between us to be severed!”

The orb stilled, and then circled into the air and disappeared. Yenn nearly collapsed; Geralt half supporting her as they sank to the ground, hands around each other.


	7. Some Mistakes Get Made

###  Chapter Seven, Some Mistakes Get Made 

“It’s gone!” Yennefer whispered, looking into Geralt’s eyes. She still had Jaskier’s blood on her fingertips, leaving red stains on his hands. “Geralt, it’s finally over.”

Jaskier stared at them, feeling a deep sense of not belonging. This was an intimate moment he shouldn’t have been present for. But did either of them care that he was here? No. Did they care that he found the djinn? No. Did they care that he’d almost died? No. 

“Yenn…”

“Don’t tell me you’re regretting this all now,” Yenn said, pulling away from him. 

“No,” Geralt said firmly. “How do you feel?”

Yenn smiled at him, sadly. “The way I thought I might. Like I’m looking at a stranger.” She hesitated, cupping his cheek curiously. “You?”

Geralt smiled, teeth and all, but it was sharp around the edges. He leaned away from her touch. “Like I’m looking at the most attractive woman I’ve ever seen.”

Yenn sighed, and it was heavy, and pained. 

“I never could say no to you, you know,” Geralt said roughly. 

“I know,” she replied quietly. “But we should see if that’s different now.”

Geralt took a deep breath, pushing himself to his feet. 

“Geralt von Rivia,” Yenn said, voice commanding, purple eyes hardened with determination. Whatever emotions she was dealing with were hidden, shoved away behind a mask of her own making. “I require your aid. I need to reassemble the six pieces of Horace’s armour in order to thwart Phillipa’s latest scheme.”

“No.”

And Jaskier had never witnessed such a simple refusal bring two people to absolute delight. If Yenn were the type, Jaskier thought she would have clapped her hands together, and possibly jumped. But she wasn’t. Instead, her smile was more apologetic, and the look in her eyes was something torn between pity and kindness. Geralt smiled, but it was fleeting, before his shoulder’s slumped and he glanced away from her. Jaskier had never wanted to be present to witness someone getting their heart broken, and now that he was here, stuck watching this tragedy play out, he could confidently say it was worse than he could have imagined it.

“I told you it would change everything,” Yenn whispered. “What we had -it wasn’t real.”

Geralt straightened, shooting her a wry glance. “Thank you for pointing that out,” he growled. 

Yenn pursed her lips, arms crossed. “If you -if you need my help, if Ciri -you can always call me.”

“Don’t trouble yourself with it,” Geralt growled. “We aren’t anything to each other. We aren’t… beholden, by this, thing, anymore. You can live your life; I’ll live mine.”

And he turned, stomping away.

Jaskier gaped after him.

Yenn sighed, soft and sad. Her gaze settled on Jaskier.

“You should go after him. He needs a friend right now.”

Jaskier pushed himself to his feet, mind numb. “You just broke his heart.”

“What we had was never real. It was the dream a boy made a long time ago.” She gestured between her and the direction he had disappeared. “What we had, wasn’t real, and it went on far too long. This is good for the both of us.”

Privately, Jaskier disagreed. “I’m the last person he’ll want to see.”

Yenn turned to him. “I owe you my thanks, I suppose. For bringing the djinn to us, even if you didn’t know what it was.” Her lips thinned. “You might have cost me the only wish for freeing us from this curse, but you got lucky.”

Jaskier didn’t get a chance to respond before a golden light split the air between them and she walked through it like nothing, and then it sealed behind her as though she had never been there at all. He gasped, offended. Torn between his need to get the last word in, awe at what she had just done, and the realization that he’d just conversed with a witch. And his chance to interview her, was gone. And so was his ride home, he realized, as he hurried down the path Geralt had gone.

His body ached. He spared a moment to be grateful that his throat was working, that he was alive. But the front of his shirt was covered in blood, as were his hands. Should he have thanked her? No, he thought as he caught up to Geralt. The man said nothing as they reached his bike. Jaskier saw the fire department walking out of the tourism centre, and he hurriedly climbed onto Roach, arms around Geralt’s middle. He was eager to leave Rinde behind, but it felt wrong at the same time. Geralt didn’t growl at him about touching him, or threaten him. He just drove away.

What was Jaskier even supposed to say? Hey sorry about being present when your girlfriend decided to rip your heart out and stomp on it? Glancing at him, he wasn’t even sure that Geralt’s heart was broken. (Firstly because that meant Jaskier had to believe Geralt was in possession of a heart, and secondly because the man was as expressionless as ever) But what did you even say after you watched someone get dumped? And it wasn’t even a regular dumping -that was a ‘I feel nothing about you anymore, thank you for relieving me of this burden.’ Geralt hadn’t professed his love, only his attraction. Possibly his heart wasn’t even broken (likely because he didn’t have one).

Jaskier closed his eyes, mind whirling with the events of the day. He’d found a djinn, summoned it, made a wish for Valdo Marx to suffer a stroke -and he didn’t regret it for a second -and watched a sorceress and a Witcher kill the djinn. Or perhaps they had simply freed it when they made their wishes. He imagined a romance where the two had loved each other, where the djinn hadn’t changed their feelings towards each other and how that might have turned out. The sorceress fleeing from their mornings; the Witcher, dreaming of twisted locks and violet eyes glistening with tears. Neither of them knowing if it was fate that tied them together, or the happy coincidence of everlasting love. The words flowed together, and he itched to be at Kaer Morhen in his room, composing. Instead, he repeated the words over and over on the long ride home.

Geralt stopped once to let him off when they reached Kaer Morhen, and then he sped off into the distance. Jaskier stumbled inside, legs heavy. And he’d forgotten that he was covered in his own blood until he saw Vesemir, rushing towards him, concern etched into his lined face. Jaskier explained that he was fine, they’d defeated the djinn, and Yenn’s wish. Vesemir let out a heavy breath.

“He won’t be back for a while. Consider it a break you’ve earned, Julian. You look tired, I left some dinner out for you both. You should sleep after, and don’t worry about lessons for tomorrow.”

Jaskier was too tired to protest. He grabbed a plate of leftovers, stumbling back to his room. He wolfed down about half his meal before he picked up his lute, journal open in front of him. By the time he was done, it was well after midnight, and his plate was ice cold. He fell asleep still fully dressed, lute in hand, and song composed. The smell of lilacs and gooseberries chased him through dreams, into nightmares. Watching as Geralt struggled against a storm on his own, lost and alone, as monsters descended on him with weapons of ice. And then there was only a funeral pyre, Jaskier standing beside it, weathered and gray with age. 

He woke up feeling the opposite of rested, but within moments his mind was drawn back to last night’s work. The lyrics were done, but he wanted to make sure the melody was intact. So he sang, and he strummed, and he wrote and adjusted until it was. Hunger growled at his stomach, but it was an easy ache to ignore. He would never let Geralt hear him sing this particular song, but it was hauntingly beautiful he thought. He rubbed his face, exhausted. A shower was in his near future. He smelled like decaying leaves, stale sweat, and blood. In the evening light, he regretted his decision to pass showering yesterday. He took the longest shower of his life, luxuriating in every minute of hot water. Scrubbing every trace from his skin, under his nails, even. And how did he even get blood there? By the time he returned to his room, his phone buzzed noisily at him and he checked it impatiently to see there were many texts. All of them from friends and classmates discussing the news about Valdo Marx who had suffered a sudden stroke and died the previous day.

Jaskier’s heart clenched painfully. Part of him felt vindicated. Marx was a two-bit writer, a worse singer, and an asshole through and through, but Jaskier’s wish had killed him. He skimmed the messages, unsure how to reply. How did you respond when the one person you’d been wishing to die, did because a monster made it so? Not many people would mourn him, of course, par for the course when you were an asshole as big as Marx had been. The man didn’t tip, waitresses or musicians. Valdo would grace Oxenfurt with his skills once a semester, throw a concert, and get freshman drunk enough to take them back to his room. Nothing had ever come of it, but Jaskier remembered the rumours, the resentment. Was he sorry? No. But it felt wrong to have killed the man anyway. Jaskier wasn’t big on regret, and he refused to spend a minute longer dwelling on the not-so-sad loss of Valdo. Maybe he would have felt different, if when he’d made the wish it had been because of the terrible things Valdo did, instead of the jealousy of wanting his rival removed. They’d often gotten into fights over which order they would preform in off-campus. It was known there was no love lost between them.

He poked around the kitchen, eating leftovers. He didn’t see Vesemir. For the evening, he shuffled into the library and lit several candles before sitting down to read. He was midway through a fascinating tale about a Witcher embroiled in political decisions, torn between a vampire friend and a pampered Queen terrified for her people, when he got a call. It wasn’t a number he recognized. He grimaced, answering the phone, honestly expecting the Oxenfurt police to be on the other end to establish an alibi for him. Even in another country, surely they’d have questions. Well, no, they wouldn’t, he supposed. It was a natural death, but the pesky niggling worm of guilt crawled in his gut stubbornly. At the end of the day, Jaskier had motive, and plenty of it.

“You gotta come take him home, he ain’t in a position fit to drive. And you’re the only one who lives up at that castle.”

“Who is this?” Jaskier asked, mystified.

“Cooper, down at the bar in Gynvael,” came the unimpressed response. “I’m the owner. Your friend with the silver hair and motorcycle, I’m not letting him leave here without a safe ride home.”

In the distance, he could hear Geralt slurring about how fine he was to drive and for the bartender to mind his own business.

“Can you come get him?”

“Yes,” Jaskier said. “I’ll be there just as soon as I can get there.”

“Good.” And then the line went dead.

Jaskier sighed, heading outside to get Pegasus ready for a ride into Gynvael. It wasn’t as though Vesemir could go get him, so even if he was the last person Geralt wanted to see, he was the only one who could bring him home. On reaching Gynvael, he spotted Geralt sitting outside the bar with the bouncer, both of them sporting several bruises. But Geralt wasn’t just a little drunk; he was completely wasted.

“Oh they sent me a babysitter,” Geralt said, his words so slurred it was as though he’d said only one long word. “What’s he gon do? Tie me on a - on a horse?”

“If I have to,” Jaskier said, uncomfortably realizing he hadn’t brought any rope. While he couldn’t physically overpower sober Geralt, he hoped the advantage of being sober while Geralt was wasted would make up for the difference between the two of them.

Geralt sneered.

“I’m sorry about him,” Jaskier said to the bouncer.

“He’s not welcome back,” was the ominous reply.

The two of them hauled Geralt to his feet, and while he swayed and slurred curses at them, they managed to get him onto Pegasus. But there was no hope for tying Geralt down, Jaskier realized as the man tipped to one side dangerously. Pegasus whinned nervously, stepping to the side and Jaskier hurried up behind Geralt. He grabbed the reins, arms around Geralt, and turned them towards Kaer Morhen. 

“You can’t keep me here,” Geralt growled, elbowing Jaskier in the process of trying to right himself.

Jaskier winced, keeping a tight hold of the reins, arms around Geralt. “Just trying to get you home in one piece, buddy.”

“I’m not your friend,” Geralt slurred.

Jaskier sighed. “I know.” He wouldn’t want to be friends with Geralt if given the choice.

“Then why’re you here?”

“Someone had to bring you home.”

“Coulda left me to dry out. Done it before.”

“Yes, but they called and asked for me to take you home, so that’s what I’m doing.”

“I don’t need you to baby me,” Geralt growled, shifting impatiently. “I can walk home.”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down there,” Jaskier said, adjusting his grip. “That’s not a good idea!”

“I’ve done it before. Just let me, let me down,” he said, pushing at Jaskier’s arm.

“God dammit Geralt!” Jaskier shouted, struggling to keep Geralt upright and Pegasus calm at the same time. “I’m not going to let you pass out in some field and choke to death either! Just sit still.”

“What do you even care?” Geralt slurred, turning to fix him with a golden eyed stare. 

“I’ve killed enough people to last a lifetime, thanks. And you might be a piece of work, but you’re not dying on my watch.”

Geralt blinked slowly. “Who’d you kill?”

Jaskier inhaled sharply, praying for the patience to get through this ride. But at least Geralt wasn’t struggling, and Pegasus seemed calmer than before. “Someone who had it coming.” He guessed. Valdo deserved to die for what he’d done, even if nothing he’d done had been illegal. Everyone complained about him, of course, and he made plenty of people uncomfortable. But he was the only person standing between Jaskier and the poet laureate position. 

“Why do you care so much then?” Geralt turned back around.

Jaskier thought about it. “Well, I’ve never caused someone to die before. That’s a big one. Not sure I should be the one who decides who lives and dies. And because while he was a piece of shit, no one could prove he was a piece of shit.”

“How’d you do it?”

“I made a wish on a djinn.”

Geralt stiffened.

“I didn’t -I didn’t think it was real, Geralt.”

“That’s why the djinn tried to kill you,” he said, instead. “You upset the balance of nature. Djinn don’t like killing people -not when they’ve been told to do it. Easy solution is to kill you in retaliation.” Geralt chuckled to himself, swaying in his seat and Jaskier had to hastily steer him back upright with his elbow before he risked falling off Pegasus.

“Wish someone had told me that first,” he said bitterly.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Geralt retorted coldly.

“Yeah I figured that out pretty quick. If you wanted to meet up with someone and get laid, that’s all you needed to say.”

“Well we didn’t even fuck,” Geralt said morosely. “She got what she wanted though. Free from me.”

Jaskier blinked, trying to wrap his head around that. “I don’t know if it was from you, exactly… Just, circumstances?”

“I wished for us to be together,” Geralt continued, as though Jaskier hadn’t spoken. “Imagine that.” He scoffed. “I didn’t mean it, like you didn’t mean to kill someone. But I did it. She was just so…”

“Beautiful?”

Geralt nodded slowly. “She wanted to prove what we had was just djinn magic.” He laughed, an empty hollow sound. “I guess she was right -she usually is. I should feel -fuck, I should feel _something,_ shouldn’t I?”

Oh.

_Oh._

This was worse than a break up. Jaskier licked his lips nervously.

“You feel whatever you feel, Geralt,” he said, as kindly as he could manage. “What you felt then was as real as what you feel now.”

“I thought I loved her.”

“Maybe you did, then.”

“Love doesn’t just turn off like a switch,” Geralt said softly. “I was so sure it was real.”

“You both got the bad side of a wish,” Jaskier said kindly. “And it’s over now.”

“What would you know about it?” Geralt demanded, glaring at him.

“I fall in love quick,” he said, unashamed. “Sometimes I fall out of love by the time morning comes around. And it’s not about the sex! I just, it happens fast, and I’m not ashamed of it. I can fall in love with a smile, or the way someone laughs, and there’s nothing I want more than to make that person happy. And to fuck their minds out, absolutely. See them orgasm, see the way their eyes light up, hear them moan my name in ectasy. Morning comes, and I’ve fallen out of love.

“It’s not about how long you loved someone. It’s about you felt, how you feel. You can be in love with someone one instant, and the next? Those feelings can disappear. What’s the difference between falling in love and out of love? Either happens fast. Sometimes you get stuck with a slow erosion -clinging to each moment of kindness, of lust, but it’s just you torturing yourself and you can see the ending written on the walls, but you fight not to get there. I hear marriage can be like that, just choosing the same person over and over again. 

“But if they don’t want to be chosen, or if you stop choosing, then that’s it. Over. Nothing to be ashamed of, either. You loved, you lost, and you will love again.”

“I will, will I?” Geralt snorted, shaking his head. “How do you know that, exactly?”

Jaskier blinked in surprise. “How do I know that? Because I believe that life is who you love. Our world is just about who we love, and who loves us. The rest is just... confetti.”

Geralt was quiet, for a long time after.

When they got to Kaer Morhen, Geralt’s dismount was more akin to half falling out of the saddle and Jaskier attempting to catch him. Only for them both to end up in a tangled mess at Pegasus’ feet, who stomped off nervously to the stables. Geralt was heavy on top of him, smelling strongly of whisky and leather. Geralt grunted as he moved off him, lost in his thoughts, or perhaps too drunk to process everything. Jaskier scrambled to his feet, hauling Geralt to his feet. But he didn’t trust the man on his own, so he led him to the stables and set about rubbing Pegasus down. When he was done, he woke Geralt up, who had nodded off, and led him inside Kaer Morhen. 

He wasn’t going to survive the trip down past the training grounds. Not with Geralt half-asleep and wholly drunk, like putty under his hands. Jaskier led him to the hallway of his room, and into the room across from his. Geralt swore at him several times as Jaskier attempted to get him onto the bed before succeeding. Jaskier aggressively wedged several pillows around Geralt, keeping them clear from his airway, as he forced the man onto his side.

“‘m not gonna die,” Geralt growled, swiping at Jaskier ineffectively.

“And I’m not going to be responsible if you do,” he retorted, pulling the blankets over Geralt’s waist. “You’re fucking welcome.”

Geralt snored in response.

Figures, that’s what he’d get for gratitude.

Jaskier returned to his room, his heart heavy for Geralt. It wasn’t every day you got dumped quite like that. But he was still wide awake, and his lute called to him. He played a few notes and started singing quietly.

“But the story is this, she’ll destroy with her sweet kiss…”


	8. I'll Come Tackle The Monsters

###  Chapter Eight, I'll Come Tackle The Monsters 

Geralt winced when their swords clanged together, and Jaskier grinned savagely. “How’s your head?” he asked cruelly. 

Geralt rolled his eyes, stepping back. Jaskier resisted the urge to stick his tongue out, returning to his starting position. Did Geralt’s hangover give him an advantage? Yes. Did it mean they were suddenly evenly matched? Not even close. Geralt gestured and Jaskier lunged forward. Geralt’s blade met his halfway through, the cross-guards of their swords cracking against each other. Jaskier’s hand shook, and they both withdrew at the same time. The hot midsummer sun blazed down on them. 

Geralt hadn’t said a word about his state, had simply woken Jaskier for their normal routine and they hadn’t talked about last night. Not one word. Jaskier was tired due to lack of sleep and the slow, creeping exhaustion of keeping up with this brutal training regimen but he refused to complain about it. At least within Geralt’s hearing. He did, however, resent that Geralt hadn’t thanked him for last night. Jaskier could have left him out overnight to sober up, but that would have been cruel.

“You leave yourself wide open when you do that,” Geralt said instead. “Do it again.”

Jaskier lunged forward, and Geralt waved his sword over his exposed vulnerabilities. “Half your body is here,” Geralt said, gesturing with his sword. “Your vitals are here,” he said, blade tapping against Jaskier’s spleen, kidney and heart. “I hit any of these? You’re dead within minutes.”

“Is this even relevant to fighting monsters though?” Jaskier asked, adjusting to his starting stance. 

Geralt arched a brow. “If I can hit you with a sword, a necrophage can get you with a bite or a scratch. Anything human sized -drowner, vampire, wraith or what have you -can get you too.”

“Yeah but what about dragons? Or griffons?”

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you’re within reach of me with a sword, they can reach you too. They’ll just hit a lot harder. Or worse, flap at you until you’re unarmed and then they’ll finish you off.”

Jaskier frowned thoughtfully. “Okay but how does that work? They can unarm me with the power of wind?”

 _“Dis_ arm, and yes. I can do it with two strikes, probably.”

“Prove it.”

Geralt scoffed, raising his sword into the ready position. Jaskier grinned, thrusting towards him. Geralt countered the blow with one strike, and a second buried Jaskier’s blade into the ground, Geralt’s sword at the base of his throat.

“Happy now?” Geralt asked, and he sounded tired.

Jaskier wouldn’t have admitted it on pain of death, but the raw energy from their swordplay was entirely invigorating in ways he didn’t want to explore. Well, he did. It just wasn’t the brightest idea, perhaps, to engage those thoughts while he was standing across from a Witcher. It was inappropriate, in a terrifyingly delightful way he imagined fighters of old didn’t struggle with. Certainly not Witchers.

“How much stronger are you than a regular human?” Jaskier asked, marvelling as he struggled to pull his blade free from the dirt.

Geralt shrugged unhelpfully. Deliberately or not, Jaskier was less certain. 

“Enough talking,” Geralt said, adopting a ready stance. “Try and hit me.”

It was like trying to touch a cat that very badly did not want to be touched, Jaskier decided minutes later. It was a flurry of movement, of Jaskier trying to reach Geralt, and Geralt batting his blade away each time. Jaskier shifted, and felt his blade smack against Geralt’s elbow; Geralt, in response, twisted into Jaskier’s body, his blade sweeping behind him to rest at the base of Jaskier’s throat.

Jaskier smiled nervously. “Got you.”

Geralt stepped back. “My elbow hardly counts.”

“Hey that’s cheating,” Jaskier argued. “You just said to hit you. Not _where_ I had to hit you.”

And then they were at it again, but this time there was something stiff about Geralt’s movements. The sound of steel clanging against steel rang out across the training grounds. Jaskier moved fast, backing away from Geralt as the Witcher kept advancing. It was enough to keep on his feet, to keep his blade moving to counter Geralt’s strikes. He couldn’t block them all, and accepted the thump to his ass, the back of his thigh, his side -and then he did something he never thought of doing. In the middle of it, Jaskier stepped forward, taking a glancing blow across his hip, and another across his side to just press the edge of his sword against Geralt’s neck. Geralt threw his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing, ducked Jaskier’s return swing, and rammed into Jaskier with his shoulder. They fell to the ground in a dusty heap, Jaskier laughing, Geralt cursing at him.

“I got you!” Jaskier crowed, delighted. “Admit it, I got you!”

“You would have died for it,” Geralt said, scowling at him. 

“Doesn’t matter, I got you twice today.” Jaskier beamed at him. “Anyways, what was that shoulder thing? Unfair. We were having a very serious sword fight until you did that.”

Geralt sighed, pushing his hair back. For the first time, Jaskier noticed his hair was undone. At some point, he must have lost his hair tie or it had simply broken. 

“You can’t always win a fight by standing on two feet and fighting with honour,” Geralt said tiredly.

“Then what’s the point of teaching me to fight like this?” Jaskier demanded. “Formality?”

“You have to learn the basics. I’m -I shouldn’t have done that.”

Jaskier rubbed at his hip absently. “So you admit I win? Right? Because that was totally a win.”

Geralt glanced at him, his expression changing between incredulity to laughter before settling somewhere in between the two. He shook his head, and it looked like he was trying very hard to keep from laughing. Which, for the record, Jaskier protested. For the first time in however many times they’d been doing this, he’d managed to hit Geralt. Twice! 

“If that’s what you count as a win,” Geralt said at last, sounding only slightly strangled from the effort of not laughing. “I guess?”

Jaskier threw his arms up in victory, beaming. “See? See! I bet you never thought I could do it. Land a hit on you.” By the guilty expression on Geralt’s face, he knew it was true. “I’m a fast learner, don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Geralt shoved him in the arm, and Jaskier laughed. 

“Are you bleeding?” Geralt asked, and the concern in his voice was almost touching.

“A little,” Jaskier admitted, shifting to check his hip. There was a scratch there, bleeding sluggishly. It wasn’t concerning, though it did sting something fierce.

Geralt got to his feet, offering a hand to Jaskier and pulling him to his feet. His hand was calloused and rough, unlike Jaskier who favoured callouses on his fingers from all the strumming he did. Geralt released him, and led him back to Kaer Morhen, ignoring Jaskier’s protests that he was fine. It was only a flesh wound. And it was, at that. Barely bigger than a paper cut -okay, so maybe it was an inch or two across his hip, and while it stung fiercely, he wasn’t going to die from it. Geralt refused to listen to him though, and instead bossed him into the infirmary where he searched through a cabinet of potion bottles to pull out a salve and a handful of gauze.

Shamelessly, Jaskier tugged his pants down to take a dollop of salve which he spread across his hip. Geralt pointedly avoided looking in his direction, which Jaskier couldn’t help chuckling about. Jaskier took the proffered gauze pad, pressing it across the scratch.

“You could die of infection,” Geralt said, still not looking at him. “Those swords are old.”

Jaskier snorted. “I’m not some damsel born in the 1800’s likely to succumb to it. There are doctors, Geralt. There’s antibiotics for that.”

“I’m not an idiot,” he barked, turning towards him. “Have you stopped the bleeding yet?”

Jaskier shot him an annoyed look. “I’m also not a child. What are you, the world’s fussiest Nan now?” He pulled the gauze back, revealing the sharp jut of his hip bone, and underneath that the shallow cut. It oozed some blood, and he pressed the gauze back down impatiently. “Honestly, Geralt.” He glanced at the other man, about to carry on when his brain back pedalled. Geralt refusing to look at him, avoiding view of the injury and Jaskier’s bare hip.

“Wait. Wait, you don’t -I know you were born in the 1800’s or so, but do you -are ankles _sexy_ to you?”

Geralt punched his arm, shooting him a dirty glower. 

“Oh Geralt!” Jaskier laughed, pulling his shirt up to reveal his stomach. “Geralt does my sensitive tummy turn you on? Is it too much skin? I’m sorry, should I cover up?”

Geralt groaned in disgust. “You’re insufferable.”

Jaskier laughed again, letting his shirt fall. “Is it too much skin for your delicate sensibilities? Should I start wearing a waistcoat?”

“I hope you die of infection,” Geralt growled, storming out of the room.

Jaskier’s laughter followed after him anyway.

And, as fate would have it, he didn’t die of infection. Shocker! Jaskier slapped a bandage on and went back to his normal routine of activities between studying and physical activity. He’d never been this active even in high school. Especially in high school, honestly. Music was his passion. Geralt didn’t join him and Vesemir for dinner that night, and Jaskier wondered if they could have more afternoons like today. Days where he didn’t want to kill the Witcher. 

“Tell me what happened with the djinn,” Vesemir requested.

So Jaskier told him. Not the part about Yenn’s wish, because it wasn’t his story to tell. But he covered the important pieces, and found himself being grilled on his knowledge of djinn and the consequences of irresponsible wishes. Which Jaskier found a little redundant considering he’d already killed a man. But he bore Vesemir’s lecture and returned to his room, to his lute and music. He avoided his phone these days; his friends’ jubilant texts, and some sorrowful ones only served as a guilt-ridden reminder of the fact that he was a murderer. He didn’t blame the djinn for trying to kill him -it would be like blaming the ocean for trying to drown you once you fell into it. Jaskier had made a stupid wish, and the djinn had attempted to punish him for it.

He rubbed his throat, allowing himself to remember the terror of the last few days. Months, even. Losing his voice, nearly dying, what, three times? As exciting as it all was, this wasn’t the life he thought he’d live. It wasn’t the sort of life anyone would choose to live. He couldn’t imagine doing it hundreds of times with no end in sight. Witchers put up with a lot. Jaskier closed his eyes, fighting off the dredges of fear and panic. There wasn’t so much as a scar on him to show he’d ever been injured, but the feeling of the panic seemed to wait in the shadows when he least expected it. He wondered how many nightmares, how many moments like that, Geralt had lived through. He imagined Lambert’s life was just a series of those moments on repeat. Because what else was there when you resented everything you were? 

He’d inadvertently killed a man thousands of miles away from him, and it barely bothered him. His guilt was the least he could put up with. Jaskier sighed, his hand dropping away to thumb through his journal. Losing his voice had been the epitome of horror, a creeping awfulness of losing the one thing that meant the most to him. He defined himself by the use of his voice. Nearly dying had been a different feeling, a clawing desperation, the kind no man would be proud to die from. Magic had healed him. 

He thought of Yenn, of the relief in her eyes to be free from Geralt’s wish. He wondered if one day Geralt might feel the same way about it. Absently, he traced the bandage over his hip. He’d never seen that side of Geralt before. He turned to his books, desperate to put the events behind him. Lingering on them wouldn’t do him any good right now. Instead, he continued reading about the Witcher, the vampire and the spoiled Queen who troubled themselves over a great Beast that plagued the streets at night. It was a tale of a cursed princess, hell-bent on taking over the kingdom through manipulating a vampire. Jaskier’s heart went out to the princess, whose father had been so ashamed of her, he banished her from her own kingdom. The vampire, Detlaff, fell genuinely in love with her, and she turned his love into a weapon she pointed at her sister’s throne. By the end, Detlaff was dead at the hands of his best friend and the sisters were reunited.

Sleep came easily that night.

And so did the nightmares.

Jaskier woke up gasping for breath, his hand around his neck. He could feel phantom fingers pressing against his throat, the remembered sensation of crushing and suffocating bubbling just beneath them. He inhaled deeply, throwing the sheets off him. Cold air flooded in, sinking through his sweat-soaked skin. He grabbed the nearest pillow, digging his fingers into the thin material, trying to remember that he was in Kaer Morhen and the monsters who had hurt him were dead. It didn’t help. He bowed his head, clenching the pillow between his hands. It was over. He wasn’t a monster hunter; he was just an observer. And everything that had happened was behind them both in Rinde. Tonight, he was alive. He wanted to rip the pillow apart -instead he tossed it aside and grabbed his lute, shoving his feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers and padding downstairs.

During the day it could be unbearably warm, but at night, the mountain air had the kind of chill he used to associate with winter. Cold air and hard nipples were hardly going to stop him though, not when his heart was racing and his mind was woefully circling back to those events. Jaskier found himself stopping at the horses pasture, and he climbed onto the paddock, lute still in hand and started to play. He played hard and fast, fingers strumming against the strings, focusing only on the energy buzzing inside his head. 

And then he cycled through his songs, the hard unforgiving ones that didn’t translate well to playing a lute. His fingers started to cramp, but he flexed them, wiggled them about and settled for playing some easier songs. Classic folk always had a special place in his heart, songs like Scarborough Fair, were a comfort of his in terms of playing. And so he sang quietly in the early morning light, about a woman who had been a true love of his. Virginia de Stael came to mind, and he remembered the late nights he’d spent attempting to win her affections. She’d never been interested, of course. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said.

Jaskier jumped so badly he nearly fell off the paddock, but Geralt steadied him, calloused hand on his ankle. “You’re freezing. How long have you been out here?”

Jaskier blinked sluggishly, turning to the horizon. The sun was starting to rise, splitting the sky with bright soft purples and gentle pinks. “Dunno.”

“You’re freezing,” Geralt repeated, frowning at him.

Jaskier shrugged, shifting on the fence to swing his legs around. “Now that you mention it, it’s a bit cold,” he said, aware that his foot was a vaguely concerning color. He flexed his toes in his slipper, relieved when there was no pain. It probably wasn’t anything serious.

“The hell are you doing out here?”

“Practicing,” Jaskier said archly, hopping down, lute in hand. “I wouldn’t be much of a musician if I didn’t.”

“Jaskier.”

“What?” he snapped, glaring at Geralt. “Gee, was I bothering your precious beauty sleep Geralt? Forgive me for thinking it was a night to play some music. The horses make a great audience, if I’m being honest. Great listeners.”

“You’re barely dressed,” Geralt said, gesturing at his state of undress. 

Jaskier glanced down, at his scrawny form, at his worn pyjama pants and fuzzy slippers. He looked at Geralt, already dressed for the day in flexible pants and a loose shirt, hair hanging loose around his shoulders. “Am I offending your delicate Victorian senses?” he asked, crossing his arms in faux modesty. “Was my bare ankle too much for you?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I’m not that repressed, idiot. Get your ass inside before you freeze to death.”

“What are you going to do if I don’t?” Jaskier demanded, turning towards him. Angry for reasons he couldn’t comprehend, frustrated and cold to the bone, and too stubborn to admit it. He found in the moment, he didn’t care very much for Geralt’s attitude. For his demands, for his glib tongue, for his overall sexiness. 

Geralt arched a brow. Jaskier knew it was a challenge, but he wasn’t afraid. He took a step closer to Geralt, poking him in the chest, just once. “Well?” he demanded. 

Some distant part of his mind called him an idiot, but that was nothing new. Geralt couldn’t do anything to him, nothing that would seriously injure or maim him at least. He was a student. And if worst came to worst, Vesemir would protect him. Of that, he was certain.

“Don’t touch me,” Geralt said, surprisingly patiently. He didn’t move an inch, but it felt like he was getting ready to fight.

But Jaskier wanted to fight. 

No, he didn’t. He didn’t like fighting. He wanted to fuck, he wanted anything to take the edge off, but it was just him and two straight guys who wouldn’t give him a second glance. Not that he was interested in Vesemir, but in terms of prospects? It was pretty slim. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the energy for doing anything other than sleeping and reliving the same exercises over and over. He could feel phantom fingers wrap around his throat, and he stiffened, trying to fight the sensation off. 

He would take a fight, if it was all he could get. He wanted to forget. And since playing his music was clearly too distracting for the Witcher, he really only had one option left. So he did the only rational thing he could think of - which was to prod Geralt again. Geralt grabbed him and threw him over his shoulder. He dropped his lute in his panic, expecting Geralt to toss him to the ground but the man had a steady hold on him, so he listened to the instrument hit the ground with a heartbreaking clang.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Jaskier demanded, struggling against Geralt’s grip.

“Taking you to bed,” he growled. “Or maybe for a cold shower. I haven’t decided.”

Jaskier’s cheeks heated. “Just - mind your own business would you?”

“You are my business, so you keep insisting,” Geralt replied, infuriatingly calm. “‘I’m just here to observe, you can’t stop me.’”

Jaskier growled low in the back of his throat, squirming. Geralt smacked him across the ass, and it was startlingly painful and pleasant, and something he did not want to be exploring at this moment in time. Jaskier yelped, but by then they were inside of Kaer Morhen and he did not have a way to get himself free. His head was smashed against Geralt’s back, his legs pinned to Geralt’s shoulder as he walked upstairs.

“I’m just a big idiot who gets in your way,” Jaskier said morosely, staring at the floor ashamed. “You’ve made that abundantly clear. Just some loser who’s still in school after, like, twenty years. You can set me down anytime.”

“Academia is stupid,” Geralt said gruffly. “And you can be an idiot, but I don’t generally think you’re stupid.”

“Generally?” Jaskier demanded, offended. He kicked with his slippered foot, a pitiful restricted movement that did make contact somewhere on Geralt’s person. He wasn’t entirely sure where.

“Playing music for hours on end all night is pretty stupid,” Geralt retorted, yanking open Jaskier’s bedroom door.

In another context, one fairly similar to this, it would have been thrilling to be hauled around on Geralt’s shoulder like this. But this context was the farthest thing from that. Jaskier’s cheeks burned with humiliation.

“Bringing my drunk ass back at three in the morning is stupid. Challenging a Witcher to a fight is pretty stupid -claiming to be better than a real Witcher, also stupid.”

Oh no. Geralt turned towards the bathroom, and Jaskier kicked at him futilely. While he wasn’t weak by any means, he was at least average in strength, nothing he did seemed to faze the Witcher. 

“Getting wasted without a way home was incredibly stupid, and dangerous,” Geralt continued, twisting into the shower to turn the water on. 

Jaskier couldn’t see the temperature, but he could hear the water blasting against the tile.

“You’re a dumb-ass, but at least your heart’s in the right place,” Geralt said, right before he dropped him into the shower.

Lukewarm water hit his cold skin, and Jaskier gasped in shock.

Geralt pushed the door shut. “Bad dreams can’t get you here,” he said, face and voice distorted by the glass screen and the pounding water. “And monsters can’t get inside unless you let them in. Whatever you wished, whatever happened… let it go.”

Jaskier shivered under the heavy fall of water.

"Yenn wished for our connection to be severed. I wished my spell could put out fires. You wished for something before we got there; it's why the djinn attacked."

Jaskier pressed his face against his knees, letting his eyes close. He was so tired. His body ached.

Geralt sighed outside the shower, and Jaskier could hear him rifling through several cupboards. "You aren't the only person who's killed and has regrets about it," Geralt said, hanging the towel over the edge of the shower stall. "You aren't the only one who has nightmares."

Jaskier snorted, swiping a hand across his forehead. His pyjama pants were soaked through. "Oh, boo hoo, a big ball of air crushed my throat." He was ashamed at the way his voice hitched on that word, on the way _saying_ it aloud brought back the claw around his throat. He swallowed tightly.

"You're only human," Geralt said, like it was a consolation. 

Jaskier laughed wetly. "And next time I go to watch you fight a monster, you'll be telling me I'm too fragile to handle it, right?"

"You are. You're only human, and you haven't been training to do this for a lifetime."

"Great."

"I told you this was a bad idea. You're just a defenseless human, and because of this, you're traumatized. And that's okay. Who else can say they were almost killed by a djinn? Witchers can. Who else has made shitty wishes that came true? Witchers."

"You are not making me feel better."

Geralt made a frustrated sound, something between a sigh and a growl. It was terribly attractive on him, and Jaskier wished it wasn't.

"You're the stupidest human I've ever met," Geralt said, at last. 

The silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the pounding of water. Jaskier managed to scoot forward, inching the temperature hotter. 

"You're braver than you think you are, Jaskier," he said quietly. "I've known humans who knew what we were, and all they saw was a different kind of monster. They called us emotionless, unfeeling mutants, and when the chance came for them to murder us in the night, they would take it. I've rescued kids, old men, you name it, and they've thanked me with the stench of fear, like they thought I would kill them next."

Jaskier pressed his forehead against the glass, letting the steam roll over him, listening to Geralt's voice.

"You're the first human we've met who hasn't wanted to run for torches and mobs. Let alone insisting on seeing monsters up close and personal. As though there's nothing scarier out there than missing out on seeing a monster, or a Witcher, in action to you. You're an idiot -running into danger where there isn't any. How you even found the djinn is beyond me. But you should remember you lived, you survived. Be thankful you did."

"And I should stop chasing after Witchers and monsters too, I suppose?"

Geralt huffed out a quiet laugh. "I'd love it if you did, but I don't think you have it in you."

Jaskier smiled in spite of it all. "Probably not."

"Dumbass."

"Least I don't think ankles are sexy."

"I will throw you in the creek if you say that one more time."

And Jaskier laughed, and just like that, the frantic energy was gone. Maybe it had been gone for awhile, but he'd been so caught up in Geralt's words that he hadn't noticed. He knew in that moment, that Geralt von Rivia wasn't so bad after all. But worse, he knew he could fall for the man if he'd just stop treating Jaskier like garbage for five minutes.


	9. I Wanna Live, Die, Wherever You Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in getting this chapter finished! I was going to do it last weekend, but I ended up in the emergency room :( To make the story very short, it was muscle pain but they just wanted to make sure it was muscle pain and not a blood clot. And then when the muscle pain -which was located in my arm and chest -was finally diminished enough for me to start writing, it was Christmas Eve. And then Christmas. 
> 
> And so, here we are now. I hope you enjoy! <3

###  Chapter Nine, Live, Die, Wherever You Are 

Jaskier stepped out of the shower, soaking wet, accepting the towel Geralt handed him. He wrapped it around him, relishing the plush fabric and how it covered most of his lanky form. He yawned, his jaw cracking painfully in the process.

“If you were a trainee, I would tell you to get dressed and run laps,” Geralt said, pushing the bathroom door open. “But I suggest you go to bed and get what sleep you can.”

“My lute,” Jaskier said, shuffling past Geralt. His body felt heavy, and he nearly tripped over his own feet. “I need it.”

“You need to sleep,” Geralt said, stepping past him to block the bedroom door.

Jaskier frowned sleepily at him. “It won’t kill me to grab it.”

Geralt huffed in annoyance. “Just go to bed. I’ll grab the damn thing.”

Jaskier went to protest, and Geralt placed one hand on his chest and pushed. Jaskier landed on his ass on the bed, blinking in surprise. He knew Witchers were stronger than humans. He glanced at his chest, then to Geralt’s departing figure and supposed he should be thankful the man was gone before he could notice Jaskier’s obvious reaction. Honestly, after the night he’d had, he was surprised he even had the energy. He kicked off his pyjama pants, crawling under the cold sheets, towel still draped around him. He expected he’d wake up when Geralt returned with his lute, but his head hit his pillow, and he was out moments later.

It wasn’t dawn that woke him, so much as it was the afternoon light spilling into his room. His left leg was slung over the blankets, one ass cheek bare in the air, and the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was his lute. Jaskier hastily pulled his leg back under the covers, sitting up, half expecting to see Geralt. But there was no sign of the Witcher, not beyond the towel that he’d apparently decided to wear to bed. He supposed it wasn’t the worst thing if Geralt had seen his ass, but it definitely wouldn’t have improved the other man’s opinion of him. Jaskier blew out a breath of air, swiping a hand through his hair in frustration.

What a mess.

Jaskier got up, throwing clothes on. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the plate of food on his nightstand, feeling his cheeks heat up. Had it been Geralt? He couldn’t imagine the man doing, well, anything that he’d done last night. Bringing him food though? Highly suspicious. Jaskier lifted the plate of cold sausages and various fruits skeptically. But anyway he looked at it, someone had gone to the effort of bringing him breakfast. He just hoped no one had been forced to see his ass in that vulnerable state. He wolfed it down, surprised by how hungry he was.

Part of him didn’t want to go downstairs at all, to hide and pretend last night hadn’t happened. But that would just scream that something had happened last night, so he pulled on his socks and carried his plate downstairs. Eventually, he forced himself to go down to the training grounds to at least thank Geralt. Also to prove that thanking someone was just the polite, courteous thing responsible adults did. But Geralt wasn’t there. Instead, Jaskier spent time walking the course he normally ran in the mornings. And then he went up for a lunch snack, but there was no sign of Geralt or Vesemir then either. He settled in with a book, and fell asleep less than a quarter of the way through at the kitchen table. 

But he kept himself occupied, instead wandering to the library to return the most boring book he’d found so far. He picked another, skimmed it. Stories and images swam before his eyes. Fierce warriors, frightening vampires, terrible wars and witches being burned at the stake. Some were even impaled. It was a terrible time. He went downstairs, scrounging for food. He hauled up a plate of leftovers, and resumed reading. He ended up setting the book aside shortly after, his stomach turning at the grotesque imagry inside. Jaskier picked up another book and was absorbed into a tale of romance and bravery, which was far more to his taste. By the time he’d finished eating, he set the book aside and went back to his room.

He played, idly strumming through tunes, flipping through his assortment of notebooks. Snippets of songs stretched between them, none of them interesting enough to play. In the end, he put his lute down, crawled into bed and slept for eight hours. He hadn’t felt that tired, but evidently he was still exhausted from the previous night’s adventure. He even slept in, for once not rising with the dawn. A quick shower, some proper clothes, the kind not meant for exercising in, and he headed downstairs to hear an unfamiliar woman’s voice.

“Well isn’t this lovely!” she declared.

Jaskier descended the steps two at a time. A blonde beauty stood on Geralt’s arm, wearing a low-cut v-neck shirt so dangerously low it was more a question of what he couldn’t see than what he could see. She leaned against heavily against Geralt, her arm looped through his, Vesemir flanking them both. 

“Really, this place hasn’t changed a bit in a hundred years?” She gasped, a cut-off noise, her free hand pressing against her side. “You need to hire an interior decorator.”

“Is now really the time?” Vesemir asked, an unfamiliar pinched expression on his face as they ushered her into the dining room.

Jaskier followed after them.

“It’s always the time, Vesemir,” she replied breathlessly. 

“It would hurt less if you stopped talking,” Geralt growled.

“Oh you always know how to talk to a lady,” she said with a laugh, which broke off into a pained groan. “And who’s this gorgeous young thing?” 

Geralt glanced at Jaskier, helping the woman sit down. “Summer student. Jaskier.”

“Jaskier? Like the flower?”

Jaskier flushed; it wasn't every day someone recognized his stage name. “Surprisingly hardy, and poisonous if you aren’t careful,” he replied by way of answer. 

Blue eyes flicked up and down him in a cursory once-over. “And terribly common, always turning up where they aren’t wanted.”

Vesemir cleared his throat. “Jaskier is more than welcome to be here, seeing as how we invited him. I can’t say the same for you, Keira.”

She pouted at the men, folding her arm across her side. 

“You’re here as a favour to Lambert,” Vesemir said, unkindly. “He is not here to defend your actions this time. It would serve you well to be careful with your tongue.”

Jaskier blinked in surprise.

“Well fine then, take my fun away from me,” Keira said. 

“This is Keira Metz,” Geralt said, standing at Jaskier’s side. “Lambert’s…”

“Don’t you dare say girlfriend,” Keira said warning, pointing a finger in his direction.

“They don’t use labels,” Geralt finished, arching a brow in her direction.

“Hard to have commitment when he’d rather serve time than be with me,” Keira replied archly. “Now, if you would be so kind to bring me those ingredients? It’s far more pleasant to chat without a broken rib. I’m sure you understand.”

Jaskier didn’t like her. He got the feeling Vesemir felt the same. Though it was hard to picture her and Lambert together, in any capacity. Her tongue was as sharp as his, and it was difficult to imagine how the two managed to juggle each other’s wit and self-importance. But Geralt sighed and turned on his heel.

“Just until you’re healed,” Vesemir said sharply. “You’re our guest, while you’re here. We aren’t dogs you can send running or order to heel. I expect you remember how that turned out last time.”

Keira winced. “Yes, Vesemir. I suppose offering my most sincerest of apologies won’t make amends for my poor behaviour?”

Vesemir folded his arms across his chest.

Keira sighed. “I thought not. I cross my heart, Vesemir, I will be on my best behaviour for the duration of my stay.”

Vesemir glanced at Jaskier. “She called in a favour yesterday. She’s unbearable, but won’t be here for long. Try to ignore her; I know I do.”

“I’m right here,” Keira said incredulously. 

Geralt returned then, saving Jaskier from the awkwardness of dealing with whatever that exchange had been. He had several jars in hand, full of various powders and herbs, which he then offered to Keira. She took them with a charming smile and began combining them into a mortar bowl Jaskier hadn’t noticed sitting on the table. She winced and swore several times under her breath before adding a few drops of liquid. She pulled her shirt up, smearing the ointment across her bruised ribs.

“What the hell happened to you?” Jaskier asked, alarmed.

“Torture,” she replied tightly, eyes squeezed shut. “Not everyone these days is happy to see a sorceress.”

“Least of all vampires with a grudge,” Geralt snapped. “You were an idiot for even trying to go after him, Keira.”

“Oh, now you care?” She chuckled, groaning in pain. “That’s touching, Geralt, really.”

“Lambert will be furious.”

Keira let her shirt fall, fixing Geralt with a glare. “Don’t you involve him. He has nothing to do with this.”

“Then it’s a coincidence you just happened to walk into Hubert’s lair?” Geralt pressed. “The vampire Lambert tried to stake in broad daylight after Hubert insulted your honor?”

“Yes. Haven’t you ever heard of a coincidence? I didn’t seek him out, Geralt,” Keira pleaded. “Honest.”

Geralt didn’t look convinced, Jaskier noticed.

“Now, I am sorry for dragging all of you into this mess. I would appreciate some alone time, if you don’t mind.”

“Bedrooms are that way,” Geralt said, gesturing. 

Keira pushed herself to her feet and walked in that direction, arm securely pressed against her side. Jaskier blinked in astonishment, turning to find Geralt looking at him oddly.

“The adventure never ends for you, huh?” he asked.

Geralt rolled his eyes. “You look rested.”

Jaskier felt heat rush to his face.

“It’s not too late to practice your swordsmanship.”

“Oh I’m always down for a round of sword fighting, Geralt,” Jaskier replied, his heart thumping painfully. What else could Geralt have possibly meant by commenting on his well-being? It wasn’t as though they were friends. 

Geralt headed down to the ring and Jaskier followed after him. He chatted about the books he’d read, asked questions about the nature of sorcerers which Geralt proved to not be very knowledgeable about other than their long-life and how they used something called chaos for their magic. Apparently it was a power than had once belonged to elves, but been corrupted by humans into an unusable form. There had been wars and genocides over it. 

Geralt tossed him his practice sword and Jaskier caught it, grinning widely. It felt familiar to have a blade in his hand again. Soon, their swords were crossing against. Steel ringing against steel like it had a music of its own, a heavy beat of interlocking blades, before they cut away from each other. Their quick steps sent dust rising from the ground, a softer tone, as their blades met in a series of thrusts and parries. By no means was Jaskier a talented swordsman, not like Geralt, but he was pleased to see he could meet Geralt’s blows easier. Geralt swung low and Jaskier stepped to the side, sword flashing out to meet Geralt’s as he reached to hit Jaskier’s exposed ass. Jaskier grinned triumphantly.

Geralt drew his sword back, one eyebrow lifted in admiration. Possibly disbelief, but Jaskier was proud enough for the both of them, so it didn’t really matter. “Would you like to try two swords?”

“But that’s how Witchers fight.”

“No,” Geralt said, wiping his blade down. “We fight with one. One for humans, one for monsters. In a pinch, you can kill a human just as easily with a silver blade as a steel one.”

Jaskier wasn’t sure he was ready. “Yes,” he said, reaching out greedily.

Geralt’s smile was fleeting, there for a moment, before he disappeared inside to retrieve a second set of practice blades. He tested them against his skin before offering the blade, which Jaskier took in his left hand clumsily.

“Don’t worry,” Geralt said, adopting a ready stance, “I’ll go easy on you.”

Jaskier adjusted the blade in his grasp, acutely aware of how weaker his grasp on it was than his right hand. “I don’t know if you even know how to do that.”

“Just remember: try and hit me.”

Jaskier stepped forward, sweeping his right sword towards Geralt, keeping his left away from the action. Geralt stepped into his space, right blades crossed together as he brought his second sword down. Jaskier raised his left blade, and the two collided for all of a second as Geralt pressed further into the motion and Jaskier’s grasp on his sword loosened and it clattered to the ground. In a moment, Geralt’s sword pressed against Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier huffed. “I don’t think we have enough time for me to become ambidextrous, Geralt.”

“You’re the one who said you’d beat me in a fight. How can you do that if you can only use one hand?”

Jaskier gently guided the blade away from his throat, because Geralt allowed it. “I think I can concede I wouldn’t win in a fight with swords.”

Geralt smirked. “I know. Try anyway, for today.”

Geralt showed him several techniques, but they couldn’t account for the weakness that existed in his left arm. Aside from a brief time period in his childhood, where he’d dedicated himself to becoming left-handed, Jaskier couldn’t say he’d ever tried. And one month when he was about six hardly counted for experience. But he was more than eager to humour Geralt, and that was how he could himself face to face with the Witcher, right hand tied to his waist, relying only on his left. Geralt, gracious as he was, kept his right hand in a fist pressed against his lower back like some kind of Honorable gentleman. 

Jaskier cursed and swore under his breath every time he dropped his sword, and then cursed some more as he bent over to pick it up, fighting his reflexes to use his right arm. And then Geralt swung his sword, and Jaskier deflected it hastily, the vibrations shaking down the blade to his hand. He adjusted his stance, bearing his weight back against Geralt’s attack before they disengaged. If he were a less talented musician, a less dedicated player, he might have started to notice the cramping. But as it was, he gave his hand a few clenches around the hilt, and swung at Geralt.

By the time they stopped, the sun was beginning to set and splitting the blue of the sky into various shades of pink and purple.

“That’s enough for today,” Geralt said, wiping sweat from his brow. He set his sword aside.

Jaskier nodded gratefully, tossing his practice sword aside. He reached behind him, attempting to free his right hand but encountering a series of complicated knots.

“Let me,” Geralt said, stepping behind Jaskier.

This close, he could tell that Geralt smelled like sweat, and underneath that, the sharp scent of juniper and lemongrass. Geralt’s warm hand covered his, and he felt the ropes loosen. Why Geralt even had them, Jaskier wasn’t sure. He figured it had something to do with carpentry, because what did he know about it? Jaskier shuddered, feeling the warm heat of Geralt’s body disappear, and he turned away quickly, rubbing at his wrist and the chafing there.

“Hard to stop trying to do everything right handed,” Jaskier said with a laugh, glancing at Geralt.

Yellow eyes met his. “The Old Trainers made sure anything we did right handed we could do with our left. It can save your life, if your right arm gets broken or injured. The difference between life and death. We spent a year with our dominant hand restrained. Learning both at the same time was… not easy.”

Jaskier winced. “Geez, and I thought not being able to ask questions anytime without raising my hand was unfair.”

“Lambert has good reasons for why he hates the Witchers,” Geralt said, turning his eyes to Kaer Morhen. “We all do. You had a normal childhood, and that isn’t something you should feel bad about.”

Jaskier stretched his arms above his head. “You were just kids.”

“And we’re letting the bloodline die with us. We’ve made our peace with it. You should, too.”

“Can I write about it? The brutality?”

“Why are you asking me?” Geralt demanded. “It’s not my story.”

Jaskier pursed his lips in consideration. “But it is. It’s all of your stories and you should have a say in it.”

“Say whatever you want, I don’t care.”

“Not even a little?”

“People used to say we were monsters. They’d refuse to pay us, accuse us of having stolen their children away. They threw rocks, they came storming our homes with torches if we made any…” Geralt sighed quietly. “We’re more visible than witches, succubi, and even vampires. But the sorcerers can deal with them if they cause trouble, and while some vampires will create problems, they mostly stick to the shadows. They don’t like people.”

“Why did Lambert fight that vampire then?”

“You’d have to ask Keira,” Geralt said. “I heard it started with her. Lambert meant to put an end it.”

“What famous vampires are there?” Jaskier asked. “I read about the Beast of Beauclair.”

“You’ve heard of Jack the Ripper. That was the last time we had one roaming the country side.”

“A vampire!?”

Geralt started towards the fortress. “What else would he be? A killer that struck in the dead of night, that no one ever saw a glimpse of his face? He was a madman, blood drunk; an addict who tried to cover his footsteps. It was the vampires who asked us to get him under control, and once we’d caught him, they showed up.”

“Were you there? When it happened?”

“No,” Geralt said, a touch offended. “How old do you think I am? Vesemir was there.”

“What happened?”

“According to Vesemir? The vampires ripped him apart. Literally. They sucked the blood from his body, tore his skin from his flesh and broke every bone into several pieces. And then they cremated him, until there was nothing left but ash, because vampires can survive a lot. The older they get, the stronger they are.”

“The less you can do to stop them…”

Geralt nodded solemnly. “If there’s no body for them to return to, there’s nothing of them left.”

“Then most of the vampires around… they’re old.”

Geralt glanced at him. “Older than anyone is comfortable saying aloud.”

“What happens if they start killing again?” Jaskier kept pace with Geralt easily as they followed the trail back to Kaer Morhen.

“Their own kind will have to deal with it. There aren’t enough of us left to.” Geralt pushed his hair back from his face, not breaking stride. “Vesemir said the Ripper killed five of their own before they even captured him. And two more after that. He singlehandedly wiped out the remaining Witchers of the Cat school -and it had taken tooth and nail to even get them involved.”

“There were other Witchers?” Jaskier demanded, incredulous. “Vesemir knew them?”

“There were five schools of us, once. Long before my time. Vipers were lost during the Crusades; we think the Manticores and Cranes died during the Black Death; Griffins were killed during the French revolution, and the Bears died during the Napoleonic Wars.”

“I thought Witchers were immune to disease…”

“Immune to the disease, but not the effects of it. How do you explain to your neighbour why you haven’t become sick? Witcher eyes were prize to be had in those days.”

Jaskier shuddered in revulsion.

“The Bears didn’t survive an earthquake that sent their castle raining down on them. The Vipers were seen as a threat to Christianity, and hunted until none of them existed. The Griffins thought themselves safe, protected by their friendship with the Crown, before they were brought to the guillotine. The Cats had long abandoned their ancestral keep, prowling at night, taking coin for monsters and assassinations before they grouped together with the Wolf School to bring Jack the Ripper down.”

“That’s awful.”

“Witchers don’t live easy lives. There’s no peace for our kind.”

Jaskier found he couldn’t argue with that. “You ever want to run away from it all?”

“No.”

“Go somewhere witches don’t know you, change your name, dye your hair, and live in peace. I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Someone has to look after Vesemir.”

Jaskier glanced at Geralt in surprise.

“Kaer Morhen’s all that’s left of us. And while it doesn’t mean anything to Lambert, and it means everything to Eskel… I’m the one who’s here right now. So, no. I won’t leave Kaer Morhen just for an easy life.”

Geralt opened the keep doors, holding one for Jaskier.

Jaskier stepped inside, feeling like he’d discovered something about Geralt he never expected to find. The man cared. For all his bluster and complaints about Kaer Morhen, about the tiny village of Gynvael, the limitations of rural living… he cared. Jaskier turned towards his room.

“Thank you, Geralt,” he said. “I feel like I learned a lot.”

Geralt arched a brow. 

Jaskier walked to his room, as casually as he could manage, but as fast he could. 

He thought if he’d stood there at the doorway a moment longer, beside Geralt smelling of juniper and lemongrass, of sun sweat and sawdust, he might have done something foolish. The kind of thing you couldn’t take back once you did it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And big thanks to everyone who comments every chapter, I see you and I appreciate you so much. You know who you are, and your comments are the highlight of my day. 
> 
> (Okay, so all comments are the highlight of my day, and nothing excites me more than email notifications when someone leaves a comment)


	10. I'm Yours To Tame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the well-wishes last chapter, I am recovered and well. No more pain. It's a great relief. 
> 
> Also I may have written this entire chapter while at work... But it's here and complete!

###  Chapter Ten, Just Call My Name, I'm Yours To Tame

For the first few days it was easy to forget Keira was even staying at Kaer Morhen. Jaskier saw her only for dinner, and even that was a short period of time. She mostly took her plates to her room and disappeared for the rest of the day, and Jaskier was too tired to take much notice beyond that. His work out had resumed, and while he didn't vomit every morning during their runs, he often still wanted to. His lungs ached, but his legs didn't. And their sword lessons had finally progressed -something Jaskier didn't think possible. But something in Geralt had changed, and he had started teaching Jaskier the various forms and poses. How to strike with a height advantage, how to drop low and attack when you were in the disadvantage, and the proper parries and deflections. It became less about swinging the sword, and more to do with footwork. How one foot too far forward left Jaskier overextended, and Geralt's blade collided against Jaskier's waist hard enough to leave a bruise. And when he didn't step far enough forward, he didn't have enough grounding to deflect Geralt as he slowly pushed weight against their swords, eventually sending Jaskier's scattering to the ground and left him unable to defend himself. Her fourth day, she stood at the edge of the arena and watched them sword fight. Her fifth? She cheered for Geralt to win. 

They went to the arena on her sixth day, and Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief when he didn't see her join them. It was easy to get lost in the dance between him and Geralt, swords clanging, feet scuffing through the dirt as they sweated under the hot sun. Geralt shoulder rolled past Jaskier, dodging a strike that would have otherwise connected before bouncing to his feet lithely and Jaskier wanted to be mad, but instead he was distracted imagining -

"Way to go Geralt!" Keira cooed, standing on the outside of the ring.

Jaskier hated her.

He shifted into a ready stance, taking a deep, calming breath. Geralt came at him, metal gleaming in the sun as he charged. Jaskier stepped out of his reach, holding his sword steady in front of him. Geralt attacked, a blurry of strikes that Jaskier met, holding steady under the onslaught. Geralt pulled back, catching his breath and Jaskier lunged forward. He attacked fast, because that was the one strength he could rely on, sword clanging against Geralt's. But he could feel the other man weakening, his guard tiring, and he pressed further, attacking harder. But then he realized his mistake, because he was the one who was tired, as he drew back to ready another swing, Geralt attacked. His fingers felt numbs, and his palms were sweaty against the hilt, but he planted his feet and held his ground. Sweat rolled down his forehead, sliding down to his eyebrow, creeping down to his eyelid. He blinked it away and Geralt attacked, blade hammering against Jaskier's who felt the sword slip from his grip. Geralt's blade brushed the base of his throat, and Jaskier swallowed tightly.

"Well, look at that swordsmanship. Can't say it's pretty," Keira commented.

"It gets the job done," Geralt said gruffly, pulling away from Jaskier. "It's meant to be effective, deadly."

Keira shrugged. "What can I say? I remember the days fencing was a sport of chivalry."

"And death," Jaskier muttered. "Bloody, painful deaths."

Keira glared at him. "Yes, I remember. I was there two hundred years ago when men threw gloves and stabbed each other to death over honour. All very dashing."

"You're dating Lambert, do you really have any room to talk?" Jaskier demanded, exasperated.

"Lambert is very noble," Keira said, meeting his gaze squarely. 

"And underhanded, vicious and brutal," Jaskier argued, feeling decidedly uncomfortable but unable to pinpoint why. "Haven't you ever watched him fight?" He had, on several unfortunate occasions where he'd been trapped to his roommate's one request: MMA fighting matches. Lambert had been a household name, and likely would be after prison too. A minor assault was forgettable in the grand scheme of things. He'd only done jail time because it wasn't another fighter. Those petty squabbles brought in viewership and could be finished in a ring, where a public brawl garnered none of the attention.

"Geralt, don't you get tired of all this fighting nonsense?" she asked, opting to ignore Jaskier entirely.

Geralt glanced at her. 

"It's research," Jaskier bit out, impatiently picking up his sword. Why he was wasting breath even trying to talk to her was beyond him.

Keira arched a delicate eyebrow. "Research? For what, homoerotic sword fighting 101?" 

Jaskier flushed. 

"Please, he's not even trying to win. He's using, what, a quarter of his strength? Maybe all the power he can use in his pinky finger? You do know he's trained to kill dragons, yes? Your pitiful human attempts are just that: pitiful."

"He's learning," Geralt growled gruffly.

But he didn't deny her claim either. Jaskier felt like a fool. What little accomplishment and achievement he had managed to obtain -to even begin to feel like he stood a chance in a sword fight, went out the window. His rose colored glasses, shattered. Because she was right, loathe as he was to admit it. Keira knew what she was talking about. On one hand, he'd known Geralt had been holding back. The man fought monsters. But Jaskier had understood the basics well enough that they'd moved onto actual footwork skills and -well, what did it matter?

"He's a musician. What does he need to know about sword fighting? You swing it, it goes clang. Swing wrong, you die." She shrugged. "Seems fairly simple to me."

"You know there's this called having fun, right?" Jaskier demanded. "And authenticity is a real experience too. I can know that swords 'clang' and that missing means death, but I don't have a basis for that knowledge. I hear magic is all about harnessing chaos -if you draw too much, you burn yourself out? Seems simple enough."

Keira glowered. Geralt stepped between them, his hand brushing across the small of Jaskier's back. "He's my star student. He's learned more than our previous ones have, and he has a plan to keep Kaer Morhen and her stories around long after the rest of us are gone. If he needs to practice swinging a sword for three hours a day, then that's what we'll do." 

Jaskier preened, grinning smugly at Keira. 

Keira lifted one delicate eyebrow, looking between the both of them. "I hadn't realized that djinn wish had changed... quite so much about you, dear Geralt. Have you told Yennefer yet? I'm sure she'd be thrilled to hear the good news."

"Okay, no," Jaskier said, stepping away from Geralt. "Whatever you're thinking, you can unthink it. I'm -we aren't involved. And I doubt she'd be thrilled to hear news of that kind. I hear it's crippling to self-esteem. But then, it's easy to see how jealous you are."

Keira gaped. "Excuse me?"

"You must miss Lambert something terribly if you're willing to come all the way here just to flirt with a few old Witchers. Word of advice? Try picking up a hobby. I hear knitting's fashionable these days."

"Fuck you," she snarled, but there was no real heat in her words. "And your puns. Do I look like I knit?" She tossed her hair over her shoulder haughtily. "And if I wanted to flirt, Geralt's hardly my first choice. The man can barely string two sentences together -no offense, Geralt. And if I wanted to "sleep" with him, well, darling... I've been there, done that. No need to rehash the sordid details on that particular event." She eyed Jaskier. "If you want to accuse someone of being jealous, maybe you should take a look at yourself first."

Jaskier inhaled sharply. "You're wasting his time, and mine, and my money. Because I paid to be here."

Keira smirked, a mean glint in her eyes. "Yes, well, the fucking isn't included in that, is it?"

"You've said enough," Geralt growled. "Both of you."

Jaskier wasn't done, not by a long shot, but to continue on talking about Geralt like he wasn't there would have been rude. And worse, Keira's stinging implications were deeply unsettling. Because he was jealous. And while he was frustrated by her presence during his lessons, which was in turn wasting his tuition money which had covered the cost of this trip, she wasn't completely wrong. She'd twisted it around to suit her own objectives, of course. But she'd said it in front of Geralt. Keira inclined her head to Geralt, raising her hands in mock surrender before turning and walking away.

"How could you ever sleep with her?" Jaskier asked, horrified.

"She was lonely," Geralt answered. "And attractive."

Jaskier made a face. "More like a bitter hag. You certainly have a type, huh?"

Geralt looked at Jaskier. "I do." A nervous expression briefly crossed his face, oddly hesitant, before disappearing.

Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck. "The nerve of her. Do she and Yennefer even get along?" He winced. Was it an inappropriate question asking after Geralt's very recent ex? But Keira seemed familiar enough with the other woman. 

"Not really. I find women, and sorceresses in particular, are seldom friendly. More like cats ready to fight."

Jaskier let out a heavy breath. "Women." He turned towards Kaer Morhen. "Virginia was like that. Lovely woman, absolutely gorgeous, and a talented violinist. She was a terrible flirt, too, it got her into all sorts of trouble with her friends, and, it seemed any woman in a five mile radius." He glanced at Geralt sheepishly. "She was my first love. Unrequited, as it turned out, but I found myself in more fights with women than I knew what to do with."

"Oh."

"It was years ago. I thought we would get married, having a set of musically gifted children, and that would be life."

"I see."

"But then I went to Oxenfurt! And I learned it's very easy to fall in love. Men, women, professors, ugh. You know?"

"No."

Jaskier smiled, a little embarrassed. "Someone with your Victorian sensibilities must remember your first. Virginia was mine in every way except physically."

"I guess."

"What was her name? What was she like?" Jaskier imagined it was a fierce woman, with a barbed tongue to rival Keira's or even Yenn's since that was the only common point between the two women as far as he could tell.

Geralt took a deep breath. "I don't remember. She was a whore."

Jaskier stared.

"Not romantic enough for you? Victorians were repressed, desperate to work it out of their system, and no one wants to sleep with a mutant."

"I would sleep with a mutant. It sounds like a sexy time." Jaskier waggled his brows teasingly.

Geralt stared at him. "You just want another notch on your bed -an accomplishment for you, surely."

"Like sleeping with sorceresses is yours?" Jaskier teased. "I have a pair of eyes."

He would sleep with Geralt gladly -the man was beautiful. The mutant part had no bearing in the conversation, in the decision. Because Jaskier knew that if Geralt were so inclined, Jaskier wouldn't waste a minute getting into his bed. 

"Hmm."

"More of a specialty of yours, maybe?" Jaskier teased.

Geralt shoved him, and Jaskier nearly fell over laughing. 

"Tell me about those days of repressed urges, Geralt. Oh! The ankles! The indecency of it!"

Geralt sighed, a long-suffering gust of air that he released. "In those days, men didn't know what a woman had underneath the dress. It was a mystery that kept many young men up late at night. And while proper gentlemen had to court, and woo, while being chaperoned with the young woman, Witchers were hardly the sort. And whores don't care if you look the part, and they don't demand you to have a chaperone, so long as you pay them. Ankles stopped being mysterious by the time I was twenty, Jaskier."

"I can't imagine," he said, chuckling.

"Imagine asking a woman on a date and she brings her mother with her, or an older sister. The entire time."

Jaskier made a face. "Sounds like asking for trouble to me."

"It was. And if your reputation wasn't worthy, you didn't go on a date at all. Witchers are mutants, and freaks, and not acceptable to proper young ladies. Widows, and spinsters, maybe. But if a Witcher wasn't careful, she got saddled with the burden of having 'loose morals.' No one found ankles sexy unless they had a foot fetish. It was only indecent and tantalizing because most men had never seen more than a wrist or a flash of skin at the neckline."

"You know you aren't a mutant right? You're just a guy who kills monsters for a living."

Geralt turned to him slowly.

Jaskier shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. His fingers itched to strum a guitar, his lute, something. In lieu of any of those, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets. "Well, you aren't. Unless you secretly joined the X-Men, in which case that's an entirely different conversation, and I'm not sure my brain could process that much information at once."

"You're insufferable," Geralt muttered, shaking his head slowly. 

Jaskier stopped, turning to face him. "What?"

"Never mind."

"No. Say it again."

Geralt met his gaze evenly. "You. Are. Insufferable."

Jaskier nodded, letting the words sink in. "Nothing new to me." 

"Do you ever stop talking? I'm exhausted."

"It invigorates me, what can I say?" Jaskier tried to shrug, mostly failing, given that his hands were still in his pockets. "If you want me to stop, I can just go."

Geralt let out a heavy breath, nodding.

Jaskier nodded, turning away awkwardly, and walking towards Kaer Morhen alone. Had he done something wrong? While he knew he could be annoying, that most people found him exhausting and unbearable and insufferable, it wasn't a surprise that Geralt would feel the same way. But they'd been having a good conversation. Maybe he didn't like the X-Men? Did the comparison hit him too close to home or was it something else? Because Jaskier had definitely annoyed him before, but Geralt hadn't sent him away before. Maybe Geralt was just tired of Keira as well. Jaskier on top couldn't have made the day any easier. Jaskier knew he was difficult by nature. He'd heard it growing up, and from friends, and lovers. 

In Oxenfurt, people knew there was a reason Jaskier had a different partner every week. There were whispers started by Valdo, carried through in the gossip at the clubs and bars Jaskier liked to perform in. Jaskier was too annoying for anyone to put up with dating for more than a day or two. Eventually, he would annoy his partner off. His friends were many, but he didn't spend much time with most of them. They had their own lives after all, just as Jaskier had his. But Valdo's gossip carried far and wide, and people theorized that not even his friends could tolerate him. And, Jaskier knew, they whispered it about his family too. Jaskier lived on-campus in a dorm room he shared with James. But gossip was insidious, Valdo's especially so. Geralt had survived the rough patch of getting to know Jaskier in all his rambunctious glory. And Jaskier had survived Geralt's surly temper and mule-headed stubbornness. Things were supposed to be headed on an upward trajectory.

Though Jaskier wouldn't find a way to warm Geralt's bed, that much he knew. If maintaining a friendship between the two of them was this challenging, he didn't want to imagine what anything else could entail.

Jaskier liked easy. 

He chuckled to himself, under his breath. Maybe he wasn't so different from Geralt. Because while he'd never paid anyone for sex, or comfort, he chose women and men he knew would be easy. Simple. Uncomplicated people. No virgins, no attachments, and most importantly no lasting relationships. Jaskier's one true love was music, fame and fortune. He would whisper it to his lovers, apologizing softly when he fell out of love, because he owed it to himself to fully dedicate himself to music. To a career he could enthusiastically chase all his life. And, in the darkness of night, that wiggling voice in the back of his head would remind him that his career would never be lonely because it was all the fulfillment he could want. It was the one thing he'd hungered for all his life, relentlessly pursuing and he wasn't going to fail now. Relationships didn't factor into it.

Jaskier didn't do yearning like this. He hadn't since Virginia, and she had been entirely content to drag him around on a leash behind her like a sad puppy. He hadn't minded. She was a special woman -fierce, ambitious and always knew what she wanted. No hesitation. Jaskier glanced back, watching Geralt disappear inside the smithy. For the first time that he could remember since coming here, he felt lonely. Jaskier turned and kept walking to Kaer Morhen. But he didn't want to go inside and face Keira, or even Vesemir. No, he wanted simple. 

He wanted easy.

Jaskier reached the stable and brushed Pegasus down before turning and heading into Gynvael. It was barely evening when he got there, but he found himself in a local diner, flirting with the waitress and ordering the largest meal he could. Her name was Abby, and she was cute. She snorted when she laughed, and her eyes were a gentle brown, and Jaskier wanted to fall in love with her. He flirted, and he invited her her to join him at his table when her shift ended at dinner rush. To his relief, she did. They talked about animals -Abby wanted to be a vet -and Jaskier talked about school. He was new in town, and she knew it. He thought about enticing her outside for a kiss by letting her examine Pegasus, but his heart wasn't in it. They flirted, the kind of sweet, flattery that made his heart race. And after they'd eaten, and talked their fill, she invited him back to her place. Jaskier eagerly followed. 

Abby was nice, and uncomplicated. There were kisses and chocolate covered strawberries; there were condoms and hands entwining. There was sweat. Abby was sweet and eager to chase her rush of endorphins, and Jaskier was more than happy to oblige her. Their bodies joined, they tumbled into a hazy orgasm -if not together, close enough it didn't really matter. And then there was pillow talk, and untangling sticky legs, and the awkward laughter when things didn't go smoothly. And really, Abby was simple, and sweet. Her laughter was genuine. Jaskier wanted to love her, if only because it would be easy. If only because it was the one constant in his life. Falling in and out of love was as easy as breathing for him. All he felt was attraction, and a burning desire to fuck someone with golden, piercing eyes. He wanted to love her. Abby was familiar, an easy presence he could fall out of love with in a week. Possibly less. But as she dragged him back into bed with kisses that tasted like chocolate-and-strawberry, she wasn't what he wanted. 

By the time they separated, showered and Jaskier went on his way, it was late. Abby's legs were jelly and she was full of giggles and smiles, a whispered promise of "call me next time." A promise he didn't intend to keep. He never did show her Pegasus. And he rode back to Kaer Morhen by moonlight, wishing he felt the high of being love drunk. But he didn't, and he wasn't. Desire burned low in his belly, a muted sense of the sensation, remembering yellow eyes. By the time he returned to Kaer Morhen, the moon was lowering itself to the horizon. The night was hardly young anymore, but Jaskier felt restless and resentful. Frustrated. His night should have been a delight -and it had, in many ways -just not the one way he'd needed it to be. What did catch him by surprise though, was the light on in Geralt's house.

Jaskier paused, staring. Considering. He thought about walking down, knocking on the door, greeting Geralt with a cheesy kiss. No, too sudden. Too abrupt. It was everything he wanted though. Geralt was what he wanted. But Geralt didn't want him. Geralt dated women, mouthy, sexy sorceresses who would just as likely strike you down as kiss you. Geralt liked to play with fire. Jaskier had none of those qualities. His heart thumped, and he toyed with Pegasus' reins, his heart knew what it wanted. To see where things between him and Geralt could go. For all he knew, if it went well, he'd get Geralt out of his head and have a good time all in one. And then things could go back to normal, because next he would fall out of love with the Witcher. It would be a relief to live his life without thinking about Geralt, without craving his approval, without wanting to make him smile and laugh. He could walk down to his house, knock, and ask Geralt how he felt. Lay his heart bare to be broken or cherished...

His heart thumped. Maybe if he'd had a few drinks in him, first. Then he could go. He loosened his hold on the reins, swinging a leg out of the saddle. He needed to know.

The door opened, and Keira walked out, pulling on a cardigan. Geralt caught her by the wrist -

Jaskier flicked the reins, hurrying Pegasus to his stable. If his hands shook, it was between him and the horse. No one else ever needed to know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt's comment, the soft acknowledgement that he does have a type while looking at him kills me every time. 
> 
> Looking forward to your comments, as always. Hope you're all doing well.


	11. Oh, Will Wonders Ever Cease?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 2:43am. You're welcome.
> 
> Apologies for any grammar issues. I finished writing this at 2:40am.
> 
> I started writing at...11pm. Just straight word to hand to hitting publish.

###  Chapter Eleven, Will Wonders Ever Cease? 

Jaskier turned the lock, and sat with his back against the door. He watched the clock listlessly as time ticked down to dawn. Would he come? Jaskier wondered. Would he knock first? The clock ticked. Would he care? Jaskier closed his eyes tightly, wishing he could will the passage of time to just stop. He was so stupid. He pressed his hand against his forehead, thumping himself several times for good measure. Stupid. Geralt? Interested in him? Jaskier let his head fall back against the door. He was an idiot, letting his heart run wild on him. 

Geralt had a type -full-figured women who liked to dress to the nine, with long wavy hair, and magic at their fingertips. And Jaskier thought he could compare to them? He scoffed. Geralt probably didn’t even like men. Jaskier couldn’t fault him for that, no more than he could fault Keira for going after Geralt again. He should have seen it coming, the conniving bitch. He rubbed at his eyes furiously; he had no reason to be this upset.

The knock startled him badly, and he banged his head into the door with the force of it.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked quietly.

Fuck.

“I’m not feeling well,” Jaskier said stiffly. Did he sound convincing? 

Silence.

“Did you…”

Jaskier pushed himself to his feet. “What?”

“Sleep?” Geralt finished awkwardly.

Jaskier frowned in confusion. He’d stabled Pegasus, rubbed the horse down, and avoided Keira’s notice when she returned to Kaer Morhen. And then he’d spent a few moments mucking out the stable more aggressively than was necessary, earning a few reproachful glances from the horses before he went inside. Geralt hadn’t seen him, and couldn’t have heard him mucking the stable out.

“Did you?” Jaskier retorted waspishly.

Fabric rustled, and Jaskier imagined him crossing his arms. Maybe shifting his weight from foot to foot impatiently. But Jaskier didn’t have the energy to be kind, or grateful. He barely even felt relieved to know Geralt cared enough to ask after him when he didn’t show up for their morning run, like he’d been doing for weeks now. What did it matter to Geralt if Jaskier had slept? 

“Yes,” Geralt grit out. “Did you?”

“No,” Jaskier said sharply, more sharply than he intended. His heart thumped, begging to offer an apology, an explanation _something._ “I met someone who didn’t seem to think I was insufferable.”

Geralt inhaled.

What would he see if he opened the door? Geralt standing there, arms crossed, scowl on his face? He ached to open the door. The possibility of seeing Geralt standing there, stricken, anxious, was tempting. But Geralt had clearly found his own company with Keira, and Jaskier hadn’t crossed his mind since then.

“Then sleep. You’ll feel better after.”

Jaskier snorted to himself. “Like you did?” 

“What do you mean?”

Jaskier paused, taken aback by the confusion in his voice. “You. I.”

“That would be we,” Geralt replied patronizingly. “And I don’t recall being able to find you for dinner, or after that.”

“You were looking for me?”

“No,” Geralt replied sarcastically. “I was looking for some other student to show off the finished smithy.”

Jaskier set his hand on the doorknob, playing with the lock. “You finished it?”

“Yes,” he said, impatient. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t see it.”

Fabric rustled. Had he shrugged? “You can see it later.” A beat. “What did you mean? About me sleeping better?”

“I saw you,” Jaskier said, the words escaping him in a rush. “With Keira.”

Silence.

“Open the door.”

Jaskier shook his head petulantly, dropping his hand. “It’s fine. You can do whatever you’d like with your life.”

“Yes. Just… open the door.”

“No.”

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

“Open. The. Door.”

“No.”

Geralt sighed. “Please?”

Jaskier opened the door nervously.

Geralt stood there in a black t-shirt streaked with paint, some of it smeared across his face. His hair was loose around his shoulders, and his brows were knit together in confusion. “She helped me finish painting it.” He eyed Jaskier, some degree of tension melting from his shoulders. 

“Oh.”

“She’s leaving tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

Geralt shifted, crossing his arms. “I didn’t sleep with her.”

“That’s uh. Good for you? Or not? I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Geralt inhaled deeply. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Jaskier shrugged helplessly, avoiding Geralt’s gaze. He felt embarrassed. He felt vaguely gross too, like maybe he reeked of sex, and maybe Geralt knew. Well, of course Geralt had to know, Jaskier had practically thrown it in his face. Shame flickered low in his gut, curling there insidiously. He shouldn’t have told Geralt.

“I shouldn’t have said you were insufferable,” Geralt said, breaking the silence between them. “I didn’t -it was the wrong thing to say.”

Jaskier eyed him skeptically. “What was the right thing to say, then?”

“You can be infuriating, and get on my every last nerve until I don’t have a single one left, but I don’t hate having you around.”

Jaskier smiled despite himself, feeling rather sad and pathetic about it. “That’s cause we’re friends, Geralt.”

“I don’t have many of those,” Geralt said with difficulty. 

Jaskier met his eyes sheepishly. He opened his mouth, and then closed it. How did he say it was the same for him too, when it wasn’t? Jaskier had plenty of friends. He didn’t know many of them well, and even fewer of them knew him particularly well. It was a friendship bonded through shared lectures, classes and upbringing. Those friends knew him only for being a musician, for being desperate to get away from his grandparents, and that he was annoyingly exuberant about his interest in music and sex. Priscilla knew how he took his coffee, and Essi knew which books to recommend him, and James knew when he was sleep deprived and ready to fall over. Shani knew his favourite restaurant, Albert knew his favourite drinks, Robert knew what music he liked and Wolfgang was always ready to pull a prank or three.

Jaskier let people know pieces of him, but seldom did anyone get past those parts. It didn’t necessarily trivialize or lessen the fact that he could call any of them and they could raid the town. Drunken adventures with Albert were a treat; Shani had the best study methods; Priscilla was always optimistic and excellent at cheering him up. Essi was ready to leave town with a text for any reason; Robert could throw a wild party, and Wolfgang knew the most interesting facts. 

“We can’t all be as lucky as me,” he said wanly.

“Are you all right?” Geralt asked quietly.

No.

“Just tired.” It was a long night, he wanted to say. He overdid himself, he wanted to add. “Had a bit too much to drink, sorry if I’ve said anything… uncouth.” He laughed under his breath. “Never mind me, thanks for knocking, and… everything,” he gestured vaguely at all of Geralt, at the paint. 

His brain chose that moment to imagine Keira and Geralt painting, getting into a paint fight. His eyes traced the streak of paint across his cheek bone, imagining Keira taking a small brush and swiping it across his face. Geralt doing the same, but with a bigger paint brush. He shook his head, turning away. This wasn’t a rom-com. They hadn’t apparently slept together either, though Jaskier had. Oddly, he felt ashamed of it. Like it was a dirty secret.

“Jaskier.”

He stopped, hand on the doorknob.

“I don’t like Keira.”

“I never thought you did,” he said, grinning at him. “But you’re the one who’s apparently slept with her once before. I just…” He floundered for words. “Didn’t want to see it come between you and Lambert. If something had happened again.”

“Again?” Geralt shook his head. “I did her a favour, once. She took me to a five star restaurant, ordered the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu, slept with me, and stole research notes and case studies on a magic-caused plague. Hardly romantic.” Geralt shifted his weight from foot to foot. “She was there. I didn’t have a reason to say no.”

She was simple, uncomplicated. Jaskier felt a fool. He yawned, and his jaw cracked with the force of it.

“You should sleep,” Geralt said abruptly. “Goodnight.”

“Geralt, wait.”

He stopped.

“You didn’t have to tell me any of that.” Geralt shrugged; he knew. What was Jaskier supposed to say to that? His heart thumped painfully. “Thank you.”

“Next time, ask.”

Jaskier smiled tentatively. “Next time don’t be such an ass.”

Geralt crossed his arms again, unimpressed. “I’m not great with words.” He worked his jaw, eyes faraway. “I’m sorry. If I hurt your feelings. Earlier.”

Jaskier startled, a visceral reaction. His hand tightened on the doorknob, like it was the only thing keeping him on his feet. 

“When you said I was being annoying?” He laughed. And then laughed some more. “Geralt, you aren’t the first person to tell me I’m annoying, and trust me, you won’t be the last. I get it.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I can out-annoy anyone. Kidnappers wouldn’t want to keep me, no matter the ransom. Honestly, I don’t think my grandparents would pay them to return me, because of their faith in my abilities to charm and talk my way out of anything.” He waved off Geralt’s response. “I don’t respect people’s boundaries enough, and I push too far, too quickly, and I never get it right in time.” 

Partly true. Sometimes he was just so excited, he didn’t care about the other person. He just wanted to be heard. A lifetime of no one caring, and he knew the only way to make people listen was to just spill it out. 

“You’re an introvert,” Jaskier continued. “I’m not. I get on plenty of people’s nerves that way.”

Shani had once thrown a text book at his head once, when he kept talking long past the point of stopping. And it wasn’t as though she hadn’t asked for him to be quiet, or to stop talking, because she had. But Jaskier hadn’t noticed. Or maybe he had, but hadn’t listened. Either way, he deserved the book to the face, though it had been a medical text and they’d both worried he’d broken something. But he hadn’t.

“Jaskier, everyone is annoying,” Geralt said, stepping towards him. He seemed to hesitate at the threshold of Jaskier’s doorway, a scant few inches separating them. “Everyone. It’s not special to you. But the way people have made you feel about it, is something else.”

Jaskier laughed, a sort of breathless sound, and looked away. A kaleidoscope of memories danced behind his eyes, of being dismissed, ignored and shoved aside no matter how much older he got. His music was praised. His studies were praised. If he wanted to discuss politics, his grandfather had an eager ear. Did he want to discuss music? His grandmother had an opinion on everything.

“You don’t need to make me feel better about it,” he muttered.

“But I want to,” Geralt said, moving a breath closer. 

Jaskier glanced at him, at his golden eyes, and vividly remembered what he’d been thinking about a few hours earlier. He broke eye contact, trying to step back without moving away from Geralt. He wanted things he couldn’t have. He wanted. And Geralt was so close to him, smelling like old paint and saw dust, and underneath that, juniper and lemongrass. Jaskier swallowed. 

“Let me,” Geralt whispered, his voice dangerously low, sending shivers down his spine. 

He thought maybe - maybe Geralt meant something different. Not about feeling better in an emotional sense, per se but something more. Something deeper than all of that. But he couldn’t bring himself to meet Geralt’s gaze, and he knew he was blushing, his cheeks astonishingly hot, and this close how could Geralt fail to notice? Even in this poor light. Jaskier shifted, just a breath of it, spread through his body, fighting the urge to turn towards him. Because if he did he was certain it would change things between them, but he was terrified to find out how. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, voice quiet, his hand settling onto his shoulder.

Jaskier startled, meeting his gaze for a second, full of -Jaskier didn’t know. But the weight. The weight of his gaze _burned_ him, seared him, and would have left him rooted to the spot. For what, he didn’t know. Where did things go from here? He’d never had anyone look at him that way, and he -

Jaskier stepped away, into his room, hand twisting the doorknob. “We should go to bed,” he said quickly. “I should sleep. I’m -I’m really quite tired.” And it wasn’t a lie either, as another yawn forced his jaw open.

Geralt smiled, a frozen imitation of a smile, and stepped back. “Sleep well.”

“You too,” Jaskier said, quickly closing his door.

His heart thumped painfully.

Wait. Not ‘you too’ Geralt wasn’t going to sleep, he’d already slept he said. He’d just been up incredibly early doing painting. Painting! And he’d finished the smithy, and he’d been worried about Jaskier, and he’d come here to check in on him. Jaskier put his hands to his head.

He was an idiot.

His heart pounded in his chest, and he turned and opened his door. He didn’t know what he was expecting.

He did. He was expecting Geralt to still be there.

But this wasn’t a romance.

And Geralt wasn’t standing there. He was walking down the hall.

Had he heard the door open? Jaskier opened his mouth, to say - to say, what exactly? Come back? Don’t go? Jaskier didn’t know what he wanted. He wanted to kiss Geralt. He wanted to kiss him so badly. He stepped back, cheeks flushed, aware that he was semi-hard already. What was wrong with him? An attractive man wanted to comfort him, wanted to soothe him, reassure him, and Jaskier sent him away. And apparently found himself reacting to it. 

He wasn’t that desperate, was he? 

Jaskier let out a breath, and closed the door whisper-quiet. 

Could he have kissed Geralt then? He remembered the weight of his gaze, the terrifying fear of being known, and knew he couldn’t have done it. Hadn’t done it. Was he meant to? Had Geralt been waiting for him to start it? Where would they have gone from there?

Jaskier could have fucked him. Or let Geralt fuck him, whatever, both were equally pleasing. And then he would inevitably fall out of love with him, and where would they be then? Jaskier thought about pulling the door open, about calling Geralt back, demanding answers. What the hell was that? Did Geralt like men? Or did he just like Jaskier? Had he been with men before? Or maybe, and more likely, Jaskier was wrong about it. Maybe he had just been scared of his own feelings, of doing something stupid, and getting his heart broken again.

Jaskier ran a hand through his hair. He was scared. It had nothing to do with Geralt, or his gorgeous eyes, or his sexy body. Or the way he smelled of acrid paint, and softer, subtly, juniper and lemongrass. A scent Jaskier could roll around in for days. He walked to his bed and face-planted onto it.

He didn’t feel better.

Remarkably, he thought he felt worse.

Some time later, after intermittently dozing off and waking up to racing thoughts, he collected his lute and sat down to play. Words came to his mind, and in seconds he was scrambling for his notebook, scrawling them down. The melody came to his fingertips, and the words tripped over themselves in their haste to come out. When he was done, the sun was high in the sky, his eyelids felt like they were being held open by toothpicks, he crawled to his bed. He shoved the notebook under his pillow, burying his face into the feathery cushion and let himself pass out.

He didn’t feel better when he woke up either. His stomach was tight with anxiety, nerves, and a frantic stirring of energy he couldn’t convince to settle. Writing made him restless. Playing music made him frustrated. He wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted, but staying cooped up in his room didn’t seem a good option. He showered instead, and went to the library. But nothing he picked up could hold his interest, and after he reread the same sentence for the tenth time he closed the book and sighed. He crept down to the dining room, and into the kitchen, hunting down some easy food. The kind of food he could eat with his hands, that didn’t involve cooking. Some sausage and cheese later, and his stomach wasn’t growling at him.

“Julian,” Vesemir said with some surprise as he stepped into the kitchen. “No sword fights today?”

Jaskier dusted his fingers off on a napkin. “No,” he said, careful to keep his voice even. Keira’s words echoed through his mind. Geralt had barely been using any of his strength. There just… didn’t seem to be a point in trying anymore.

“Have you been by to see the smithy yet? Geralt mentioned you were hung over, needed to sleep it off.”

How thoughtful of him. “Not yet.”

“You should. He’s going to be moving onto fixing up the greenhouse next.”

“You guys have a greenhouse?”

“A garden, yes. But a greenhouse will make gathering herbs much easier, when we can plant everything locally.”

“Makes sense,” Jaskier said. “Is Geralt already at the green house, you think?”

Vesemir glanced at his wrist watch. “Hard to say. He has to pack his tools up, and move them to the new building yet. He might be.”

Jaskier nodded. “I suppose I should go see the smithy.” Not that he wanted to see it.

Well, he wanted to see the finished project, but he didn’t want to see Geralt. His stomach did an odd flip then. Vesemir waved him off, and Jaskier reluctantly headed down. He stopped by the stables, brushing down Pegasus, trying to dawdle. Why was he so nervous to see Geralt? It was a new feeling for him. He was familiar with the highs of being in love, the flattery and devotion, the gifts and courting. But nerves? He wished he had last night’s confidence and surety, the decision to just march down and get it all out in the open. But he had none of it today. He sighed quietly, and patted Pegasus before walking down to the smithy because he couldn’t possibly delay a moment longer without stopping to pick actual flowers on his way.

He got there just as Geralt stepped out.

But Geralt only nodded his head in greeting, before lifting his bag of carpentry tools and walking on. Jaskier frowned after him, his stomach clenching painfully. He shook his head, pushed open the smithy door and gasped. He wondered if the smithy had ever looked like this? Perhaps it had. The wood was clearly aged, and the stone still had scorch marks. While the paint was fresh, it didn’t detract from letting the smithy itself shine. Like a background scene, it was easy to ignore in order to focus on the rest of the painting. And it was a gorgeous scene of history.

Jaskier returned to Kaer Morhen. He and Vesemir ate alone for the first time since… Jaskier couldn’t remember when. A long while seemed accurate. He managed to get some reading done that night, though it was a struggle. He played his lute, wrote a dozen lines and then crossed them all out. He slept. He turned his morning alarm off with an exhausted flick of his finger, and laid in bed so long he fell back asleep.

Geralt didn’t knock on his door.

He ate breakfast with Vesemir, and Geralt didn’t join them. He read more books, and didn’t go to the arena for sword fighting. Geralt didn’t come looking for him either. Jaskier went down for dinner, and it was just him and Vesemir once more. He tried not to feel disappointed, and then he tried to not feel guilty, and he failed.

“Did the two of you get into a fight?” Vesemir asked, cutting into his steak.

“I don’t think so,” Jaskier said, startled into honestly. He frowned, stabbing at a potato. “I don’t know.”

“The two of you are tiptoeing around each other. Just apologize already.” He met Jaskier’s gaze, quelling his argument. “And apologize again if you think you don’t have to.”

“Yessir,” he muttered sullenly.

He thought he would avoid it, or put it off for another day or two, but as they cleaned up the dinner table, Vesemir handed Jaskier a covered plate of leftovers. With a significant look, and not a single word exchanged between the both of them, he sent Jaskier out of Kaer Morhen. To deliver the food to Geralt, which Jaskier supposed was the least he could do.

But why was he so nervous about it all?

The greenhouse was a shambling wreck, Jaskier discovered. It was another two miles or so off from the arena and smithy area, sheltered underneath a broken and toppled watchtower. Geralt had assembled a make shift lean-to in the shadows of the remains, and Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t spot him nearby. He could just drop the plate off and go. Geralt would never have to know he’d come down here at all.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier stiffened, turning to face Geralt. He was shirtless, with a towel draped around his neck. A pair of damp shorts on. Scars lined his torso, and Jaskier ached to touch them. His hair was tied back loosely, several strands falling about his face in such a casual display that Jaskier felt like he was intruding on a private moment. Like he shouldn’t be able to see Geralt like this, undressed and relaxed. 

He swallowed, keeping his eyes on Geralt’s. “I brought you dinner.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said, walking over to take the plate from him.

“Did you bathe in a river?” Jaskier blurted.

Geralt unwrapped the plate. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s refreshing.”

Jaskier bit his tongue, fidgeting. Geralt carried the plate to the lean-to, sitting down at the base of it, apparently content to ignore Jaskier entirely. His stomach clenched painfully.

“I’m sorry,” he said, desperate for things to go back to normal. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong, exactly, only that it was the wrong thing.

Geralt turned to him in surprise. “You don’t have -I should be the one -I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“No, you don’t have anything to apologize for,” Jaskier said quickly. “I was -I was rude.”

Geralt set the plate down beside him, drying a spot on his chest. Jaskier’s eyes traced the motion hungrily.

“I put you in an awkward position,” Geralt replied. “It won’t happen again.”

It wouldn’t happen again? Jaskier thought back to that moment, the closeness of their bodies, the sear of Geralt’s gaze. He should be relieved. 

He wasn’t.

“What if I want you to?” Jaskier blurted, heart pounding. “Do it again, I mean.”

But he didn’t. What would happen next? What would Geralt do? Jaskier was desperate to know where that night had been leading. Because it hadn’t been to sex. He knew what sex was like. He knew what lust was, he was entirely familiar with it, with burning need, with speed and laughter, with impatient curiosity. But the other night had been something different. 

Geralt stared at him. He didn’t answer.

Jaskier wet his lips. Do or die moment. Did he say it? What would he even say? ‘Hey Geralt, let’s fuck.’ Or ‘Geralt I’d really like to kiss you and I don’t even know if that’s what you’re into, but what do you say we try?’ Or ‘Geralt please stop staring at me and do something.’ Because Jaskier wasn’t sure what to do. He felt clumsy and wrong-footed for the first time in a very long time. As though if he made the wrong move, or said the wrong thing, he would shatter whatever they had built between them.

“I…” Jaskier trailed off. “It was intense. The other night.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know how to handle it. And I - I handled it poorly.”

“Intense?” Geralt parroted quietly. He leaned back, watching with unabashed curiosity. “What do you mean, intense?”

Jaskier spread his hands in front of him and gestured vaguely. “I don’t know!” he cried. “It was a lot. I just. I didn’t.” He huffed, frustrated with himself. He was scared, he knew, but he didn’t want Geralt to know. He needed Geralt to not know. “I panicked.”

“Panicked?”

Jaskier floundered. “Yes, Geralt. It happens to the best of us sometimes, and I panicked.”

“Because… I’m a monster?” and there was a hard edge to his voice, mirrored by the guarded look in his eyes.

Jaskier lunged towards him, dropping down on the soil beside him. It smelled of fresh rain, damp earth and molding leaves. Hardly romantic. “No,” he said urgently, taking Geralt’s hand in his because dammit all. “No. Never that.”

Geralt looked at their joined hands distrustfully. But he didn’t pull away. Was it a good sign?

“I…” Jaskier hesitated, searching Geralt’s face for some clue. Some indication. Anything. But there was nothing. “I got caught up in my own thoughts,” he admitted, feeling his cheeks heat. “And I panicked. And I need you to know, I’m sorry.”

Geralt broke their staring contest first, patiently recovering his food with tinfoil. He didn’t say anything. Jaskier’s heart thumped painfully. 

“What were you going to do the other night?” he asked, desperate. Aching to know, he squeezed Geralt’s hand in his.

“It doesn’t matter,” Geralt said gruffly, carefully removing his hand from between Jaskier’s.

He thought his heart might break right then, and fall out of his chest. “It does to me,” he pleaded. 

Geralt turned away, reaching into the lean-to.

“Please.”

He handed a book to him. “I found it in the attic at the smithy,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier blinked, looking down at the dusty tome in his hands. “Oh.” He flipped open the cover, not really reading the words. “Thank you. Very considerate.”

“One of the Witchers had a bard, and he kept a record of songs he wrote about the various Witchers he met,” Geralt said, and there was still something hard and off-putting in his voice. 

“Yeah, I love it,” Jaskier said, but there was no delight in his voice. He closed the cover, facing Geralt once more. 

His stomach flipped nervously. His hands itched to touch the other man. He clenched them around the book, until his knuckles were white, until the urge had subsided. 

“The smithy looks amazing.”

Geralt nodded, barely even looking in Jaskier’s direction.

And it was all so awkward, so painfully awkward, and Jaskier let out a frustrated breath. “Well. Thank you for the book.”

Geralt nodded again, still not looking at him.

Jaskier’s heart thumped. “Look, Geralt, I…”

Geralt’s eyes flickered to his, and Jaskier’s heart hurt with how much he wanted to reach out and comfort the Witcher. But he didn’t know what was wrong. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong, not really, not enough to fix it. But he wasn’t a coward either. And he wouldn’t know what would happen until he did it. And his courage from the other night seemed to come back to him, and he inched himself closer to Geralt, until he could feel the heat radiating off the other man, until he could smell juniper and lemongrass underneath all the other scents of nature. Until they were nearly as close as they had been that night.

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” he admitted softly, looking away from Geralt. Staring at a safe middle ground, at the tree in front of him. “Er, I know what I did. And I think I have an idea of what -of where -things were going before I fucked it up.”

“Hmm.”

“And I’d -well, turn me down if you like, but I have been thinking about this for a very long time.”

His breathed. His stomach didn’t clench, perhaps because it had already got all the clenching out of the way. And his heart was pounding, but no more than usual it seemed. Maybe it always beat this steady around Geralt and he just hadn’t noticed.

He turned, slowly, to find Geralt watching him. The other man was almost painfully tense, but there was a wariness in his eyes that Jaskier feared he had put there. So, slowly, carefully telegraphing his intention, he leaned in. His eyes drifted to Geralt’s lips, wondering how they would feel against his own. Geralt didn’t stop him, but he didn’t move closer either. He didn’t lean in. He was just… watching.

Jaskier brought his lips to Geralt’s, kissing him softly, sweetly. But he didn’t react. He didn’t push Jaskier away, he didn’t kiss back, and horrified, Jaskier withdrew, cheeks flaming.

“I’m -I shouldn’t have -is that, are you not interested?” he demanded, flustered.

Geralt’s hands cupped his cheeks, and Jaskier met his gaze, bewildered. Geralt pulled him in slowly, and Jaskier allowed himself to be pulled in, until they were kissing. His palms were sweaty, his heart was pounding and he felt little more than a teenager as he practically straddled Geralt, kissing him more urgently. His hands slid across his chest, marvelling at the hard muscle, feeling the rigid scars beneath his hands. 

Geralt pulled back first, catching Jaskier’s questing hand in one of his. He kissed the tip of his finger, down the palm of his hand, to his wrist. “We have to talk about this.”

“Right now? There’s a million things I can think of that are more exciting than talking,” Jaskier said, voice low. “Certainly ones more fun to put my mouth around.”

Geralt blushed, to his amazement. Jaskier grinned, delighted, kissing him again. 

“No,” Geralt said, pulling back with a chuckle. “You’re leaving here in a month. I’m not sure it’s wise to start anything now.” He looked between them almost apologetically.

“It’s just sex, Geralt,” Jaskier said impatiently. “We can be reasonable adults about this. We fuck until we don’t, and then we go on with our lives.”

“And if either of us decides we want to continue afterwards?” Geralt asked wisely. “Because it’s been known to happen.”

“Then we long-distance until it fizzles out. Honestly, that’s really a problem for then and I’m more interested in this moment, right now.” He rolled his hips for emphasis, grinning at the groan it dragged from Geralt. “Right now, it’s just us. The future changes every second. And we’ve wasted enough time already.”

Geralt kissed him then, his hands sliding under Jaskier’s shirt. And then it was the familiar urgency, the kind that Jaskier knew intimately well. It sent goosebumps down his flesh, or perhaps it was the chill in the evening air, but he didn’t mind. His pressed kisses along Geralt’s cheek, down to his jaw, down his neck. Geralt tugged Jaskier’s shirt off brusquely, calloused hands sliding down his side, sending shudders down his body. Jaskier pressed their bodies forward, half falling into Geralt’s lap, clothed erections pressed together. He kissed him, because he could, to marvel at the fact that he could do it, that Geralt kissed him back with the same primal need. 

Geralt smacked his ass, and Jaskier gasped at the delightful sensation, and Geralt brushed his tongue against Jaskier’s, a fleeting moment that nearly had him groaning. He shifted his waist, grinding them together as they made out like desperate teenagers. Geralt groped his ass, driving him forward. Jaskier pulled back, breathless, gazing at him in disbelief.

“What?” Geralt husked, sliding his hand along Jaskier’s back.

“You,” he admitted. “Here.”

“I live here,” Geralt said with a laugh.

Jaskier kissed him, short and sweet. “With me.”

“That’s generally how this works.”

Jaskier laughed. “I know that.”

He just hadn’t considered that it might be possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked it.
> 
> I look forward to reading your comments <3


	12. For the Hell Of It

###  Chapter Twelve, Let's Just Fall In Love For the Hell of It 

It was agony having to wait for Geralt to get dressed; really, Jaskier thought walking to Kaer Morhen with Geralt already mostly undressed would have been a fantastic idea. But Geralt adamantly refused, and it was a bit chill with the mountain air. So Jaskier kept his back turned, and despite his best efforts to sneak a peak, Geralt seemed to sense his eyes each time and thwarted his every attempt. He supposed he could wait the walk. He shifted, impatient. And then Geralt was dressed, hair loose around his shoulders, in nothing but a black tee and sinfully tight jeans.

Jaskier twined their fingers, feeling the sword callouses on Geralt's hand, and he could barely believe they were doing this. The walk back to Kaer Morhen was like one held exhalation, one bated breath, like they were on a slow climb to the peak of a roller coaster. When they got back to Jaskier's room, that was the start of the peak before they rapidly descended into naked bliss. But for now, they didn't talk. Jaskier kept stealing glances at Geralt, when the Witcher wasn't looking, and he knew Geralt was doing the same. Geralt squeezed his hand lightly, and Jaskier turned to him questioningly but the other man didn't say anything.

"How long?" Jaskier asked, nearly cringing at how husky his voice came out. God, he was desperate, but not that desperate. Or was he? Maybe he was.

Geralt tilted his head in askance.

"Have you wanted to fuck me?"

Geralt chuckled, low and soft, and shrugged unhelpfully. "I suppose since you started learning how to sword fight? But that first day, when you got here wearing that wretched hat, I thought you were attractive."

Jaskier grinned. "Yeah?"

Geralt bumped their shoulders together. "Stop fishing."

Jaskier gasped in mock outrage. "I would never!"

Geralt arched a brow in his direction, which was both impressive and maddeningly sexy, but also his disbelief was earned. Because Jaskier absolutely would. As eager as he was to get Geralt into his bed, he was desperate to know Geralt's opinion of him. Things had changed so much since April, when he'd been certain Geralt would have rather he died than lift a finger to help him.

"Have you slept with men before?" Jaskier asked instead, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"I'm almost two hundred years old," Geralt replied with an aggrieved sigh. "Yes."

"Huh. Were you always interested in men?"

Geralt paused, considering. "I suppose not? But it wasn't something we discussed then, either."

"Repressed Victorian Age and all that, hey?" Jaskier teased.

Geralt shot him an annoyed glare, but didn't dignify it with a response. "When did you figure out you were interested in men?"

"Always," Jaskier said lightly. "I've fallen in love with men and women for as long as I can remember. Crushes on girls were just talked about differently -oh, look at little Julian and Fiora, aren't they the cutest? Guy crushes?" Jaskier snorted, shaking his head at the memories. "Julian and Pietro are attached at the hip, never far from the other." He shrugged. "I didn't have a big coming out moment, or anything like that."

Not that his grandparents would have understood anyway. They could barely grasp gay as a sexuality, and while they'd heard of bisexuality they certainly weren't accepting of it. Jaskier didn't feel the need to get into the nitty gritty details of how or why he identified as pansexual. And, in all honestly, he would never come out to his grandparents. Their opinions were outdated, and he wasn't going to bring a lover home for their approval. Sure, he'd bring them around if they really demanded to meet his grandparents, but he wasn't likely to have some kind of grand coming out moment to them.

"Really?" Geralt asked. "Not how I meant that. You just seem…"

"Flashy?" Jaskier teased. "Yeah. I suppose, I can see that. Just…"

He pictured sitting down at the giant dining room table his grandparents ate dinner at, seated halfway down the table from them, and clearing his throat. He imagined still being fourteen, maybe fifteen, freckled from the sun, with unfortunate spots across his face and tapping a utensil against a glass until he had their attention. And then telling them. Their weathered faces wrinkling in disapproval. A gentle, but firmly unyielding word of advice given, that what happens behind one's bedroom door is best left there. And, if not there, that a trip to a specialized team of doctors out of town would be arranged. He wouldn't put it past them.

"Maybe in different circumstances. I go all out for Pride events, though."

"Rainbow glitter and everything?"

"Dancing on a float, even," Jaskier said proudly. "Singing too, usually."

Geralt tugged him closer, arm around his shoulders, and brought their lips together.

"Less talking, more walking," Jaskier said, voice low. He held onto Geralt for a moment longer, their noses brushing, breath mingling before he let go.

They half-ran back to Kaer Morhen, long legs carrying them across the distance easily. When they made it to the broad doors, Jaskier grabbed Geralt by his shirt and pushed him against them, pleased at how pliant Geralt was under his touch. He pressed their bodies together, confident in how unyielding and stiff the ancient doors were. They'd survived wars, after all; kissing was nothing. Jaskier kissed him, dirty and biting, full of tongue and promises he would fulfill once they were alone, in a bedroom. Geralt didn't seem to mind, his hands settling over Jaskier's hips, pulling at him until they were flush together, before his hands settled onto his ass. Jaskier rolled his hips, enjoying the way Geralt's hands gripped tighter, the way he chased Jaskier's mouth, until they were kissing again. Jaskier ached to straddle him, to put his mouth around -

"We should really go inside," Geralt said, his voice raspy. His hands remained where they were, though, keeping their bodies pressed together.

Jaskier twitched against him, feeling Geralt's body respond in kind. "That was the plan."

Geralt grinned, one hand sweeping up to cup the back of Jaskier's head, slowly drawing him in for another kiss. This one, slow and languid, and Jaskier eased into it, letting Geralt take the lead. And then they were drawing apart for a breath, and Jaskier leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to Geralt's mouth, unable to resist. The man was a talented kisser.

"Inside," Jaskier whispered, clenching his hand in Geralt's shirt.

Geralt grinned, and turned, shoving the doors open. He half-dragged Jaskier with him, and they froze in fear as the door collided with the hallway wall. But Vesemir didn't suddenly appear, and Jaskier wasn't sure it would have mattered if the man had. Jaskier's heart raced, blood pumping, and grabbed Geralt's hand, pulling him down the other hallway, towards his room. At some point, night had caught up to the both of them. And it was too easy, too tempting, for Jaskier to push Geralt against a wall and kiss him breathless. Geralt seemed to feel the same though, because he caught Jaskier at the next doorway, shoving him against it, hard muscles unyielding to Jaskier's fingertips. And he loved it. Geralt kissed him roughly, stealing his breath, hands wandering across his skin -and when did he sneak a hand under his shirt?

It felt like it took them an eternity to get to Jaskier's room. Jaskier kicked his door shut behind him, turning to find Geralt leaning against the bed, gold eyes on him. His heart thudded. Jaskier stepped over to him, almost shyly fitting into Geralt's embrace, hands exploring his broad back. And then they were kissing, soft and slow, and languid. Jaskier's hands went to Geralt's hair, dragging along his scalp, and Geralt's hands were on his lower back, and then they dragged up, pulling Jaskier's shirt with it. Geralt's hands swept across his chest, over his nipples, and back down his sides, settling at his waist. There was a question in his eyes, and Jaskier was desperate to answer it with yes. As many yeses as it took for them to be naked, for them to fall into bed, for Jaskier to finally get a taste of Geralt. Geralt must have felt the same, because he pulled back from the kiss long enough to rid Jaskier of his shirt. And then he was pressing reverent kisses along Jaskier's stomach, circling his navel before dipping his tongue in sinfully. Jaskier arched against him, erections bumping together in a dazzling bolt of lightening that filled all of his nerves with a frantic energy.

It was too much; it wasn't enough. Jaskier made an aborted whine, grabbing at Geralt's shirt, tugging and tugging until it was off, and he threw it across the room for good measure that Geralt might never get dressed again. Jaskier straddled him, knees braced on the mattress, pressing against Geralt eagerly, kissing him hotly. It was impossible to believe that the man was here, in his bed, as he'd been fantasizing since his first day here. It wasn't the kind of thing he talked about, or allowed himself to think on, but having Geralt here, underneath him, he knew it was exactly what he'd been missing. He rolled his hips curiously, feeling the hard length of Geralt underneath him. His heartbeat quickened eagerly. He wanted to have it in him, in his mouth, in his hands. He wanted everything, and then some. He wanted to know every scar on his body, every spot and mark that he'd earned fighting, and he wanted Geralt to know that he wasn't a monster. He could never be a monster to Jaskier. How a man this mind-boggling gorgeous could see himself as one, was beyond Jaskier's reckoning. 

Jaskier kissed him, once, twice, and then down his stubbled jawline. He kissed down his neck slowly, down to his scar-riddled chest. He paused to press a kiss to each scar on his journey, feeling Geralt's body flutter at his touches. He ran his hands appreciatively across the hard muscle there, and kissed back up his chest, to his pecs. He pressed a sweet, soft kiss to each nipple before taking it in his mouth, swirling his tongue across them until they had stiffened. He could feel Geralt shifting in his pants, the delightful hard length of him straining against his jeans, rubbing against Jaskier in turn. And while Jaskier was many things, patient was not one of them. He rocked his hips against Geralt's, dragging their clothed erections across each other before doing it again. He could guess at how big Geralt was, like this, but he was shamelessly eager to see it. Though it would require stopping this motion, as he felt Geralt grind against him in turn, and he bore down hungrily. He wanted this, he realized. _Really_ wanted this, in a way he wasn't familiar with. It was more than desire, but he couldn't place the words for it. 

He sank down to his knees on the floor, undoing Geralt's jeans. He eyed his bulge appreciatively, running a hand along the length of him, easing Geralt's jeans down. Black boxers kept him covered, but it was only a few tugs to get Geralt's jeans down his hips. It would be his calves that would be a problem. These jeans looked amazing on him, made his ass look fantastic, and shapely, but Jaskier was nothing if not determined. He pulled them down roughly, and again, pulling them past Geralt's knees and then down his calves. They clung to his ankles, but Jaskier wasn't about to be stopped. He ran his hands down Geralt's muscular legs, glancing up at him to see his eyes were closed and his head tilted back as though no one had ever touched him quite like this. Jaskier pressed a kiss to his knee, finally getting his jeans off. He trailed kisses up his thigh, across his covered erection, and then he pulled his boxers down. Geralt arched his back, and Jaskier removed the offending final article of clothing with relief as he wrapped his mouth around Geralt's tip.

"Fuck," Geralt gasped.

Jaskier leaned forward, taking more of him into his mouth. He brushed his tongue across the head of his penis, feeling Geralt gasp at the touch. He bobbed his head slowly, focusing on the rhythms of Geralt's body. The way he startled when Jaskier licked him, the way he groaned when Jaskier sucked. He ran his hands along Geralt's thighs, feeling the muscles jump and strain there. He was working so hard to keep still, for Jaskier. Jaskier hummed in appreciation around him, and jumped when he felt Geralt grabbing at his shoulders. He pulled back, admiring Geralt's lust blown pupils, and shared a grin with him before he bent down. He teased him, dragging his tongue across his head, stroking him easily. Geralt groaned, and his self-control wavered for a minute, hips making an aborted thrust, trying to reach Jaskier. But he wasn't going to be that easy, and so he licked the length of him before swallowing him down again. Geralt's groan was one of bliss, and maybe a little frustration. He bobbed his head feeling the hard length of him against his lips, against his tongue, against his cheek. 

He pulled back, allowing the Witcher to guide him up, until he was straddling him, lips swollen and messy.

"You're wearing too many layers," Geralt growled, voice husky with desire.

Geralt undid his pants, and Jaskier slid to lay on the edge of the bed, shifting to help Geralt drag his jeans off. They'd barely been kicked off his ankles, before Geralt grabbed Jaskier and hauled him on top, hands settling on Jaskier's bare ass.

"You have no idea," he rasped, "how long I have wanted to do this."

"We haven't even had sex yet," Jaskier protested.

"No," Geralt agreed, kneading his ass. _"This."_

"Oh!" Jaskier arched forward, erection bumping against Geralt's. A jolt of pleasure darted through him, and he swallowed tightly. "Why don't you tell me then?"

"That night," Geralt growled, "that _fucking_ night. You fell asleep, and when I came back with your lute, you'd thrown a leg out. Ass sticking out for me to see." His hands grew rougher, but Jaskier found he didn't mind, hips moving with the motion, rutting shamelessly against Geralt.

"You saw me?"

Geralt chuckled, low and hot just beneath his ear. "Yes. And it's even better than I remember it."

"Love to surpass your expectations," Jaskier all but purred, happily draping himself over Geralt. "What did you want to do when you saw it?"

Geralt grinned at him. "Take you apart. Wanted to get my hands on you, like this," he said, massaging his cheeks. "Wanted to fuck you senseless, till it was only my name on your lips, until you were begging me for release."

Jaskier shuddered, licking his lips. "You could have. You definitely could have done that, and I would have been so happy."

"Yeah?" Geralt murmured, one of his hands gliding across his hip bone. "Would you have begged for me?" A lone finger traced the length of him. 

"Yes," Jaskier rasped.

"Would you have remembered?" Geralt's finger drew a circle around the head of him, sending shuddery sparks throughout Jaskier's body. He fought to not lean into the touch, to not beg for it, but his body had different ideas. 

"Yes," Jaskier whispered. 

"I think you would have grumbled and groaned at me," Geralt murmured, his finger tracing back down him. It meandered down to his balls, and Jaskier shivered violently at the tease. "You wouldn't have believed I meant it."

"I want it."

"Do you?"

"Please," Jaskier breathed, hips straining towards Geralt. 

"Please what?"

"Touch. Me." Hell, any touch, just so long as there was skin to skin touch.

Then, they kissed. It started slow, and languid, two men who had all the time in the universe. But desire had other ideas, and soon they were kissing rougher, more urgently. Jaskier ran his fingers through Geralt's hair, and Geralt's hand wrapped around him. It was slick with lube already to his delight. Jaskier moaned softly, bucking into Geralt's touch, before finding better ways to occupy his mouth. Kissing, primarily, along Geralt's neck and shoulder. And when it felt particularly good, he didn't mind using a little teeth. Geralt kissed his cheek, the heavy weight of his golden eyes searing Jaskier to the spot as he thrust obligingly into Geralt's grip.

And then there was the bottle of lube, pulled from Jaskier's nightstand at some point without him noticing. Geralt worked him open with one finger, and by the time his second was in, Jaskier was putty against the man's chest. They kissed lazily, messily, both of them focused elsewhere. Jaskier wrapped a hand around Geralt, stroking him in time with each thrust of Geralt's fingers, until they were breathing heavy, full of desperate need. Jaskier groaned when a third digit entered him, and he shifted his hand to loosely bring the two of them together, clumsily focusing on stroking them together despite all his focus being on those three fingers.

"You look good like this," Geralt rasped.

"I'd look better sitting on your dick." Jaskier gasped when Geralt crooked his fingers just right, and he squeezed them together as an after thought.

"I don't know about that," Geralt said. "This is a great view."

"Promise I'll look better once your dick is inside of me."

"You're just saying that," Geralt teased.

Jaskier whined, but it came out somewhere in-between a whine and a groan. His hand was still, and he moved with every thrust of Geralt's fingers. "Please," he gasped, as Geralt found the sweet spot once more.

Geralt kissed him, hard and unforgiving, and Jaskier returned his kiss desperately. He needed Geralt now. His every nerve felt like it was on fire, like he would explode any second, and he needed Geralt to be inside him when it happened. He pushed at him, and Geralt withdrew, and then Jaskier lined himself up and drew Geralt into him. They moaned together, foreheads touching, breath hot against the other's cheek.

"Fuck."

And then, Jaskier moved. Slowly at first, adjusting to his girth, welcoming the drag of Geralt so intimately deep inside him. Geralt groaned quietly, thrusting, his hands settling on Jaskier's hips, holding him steady as he fucked into him. They kissed carelessly, Jaskier all but bouncing on Geralt's cock as he thrust into him. Geralt shifted, rolling them over, before sinking deeper into Jaskier. Jaskier threw his head back, groaning under his breath, hands clawing at Geralt's back, gripping the back of his shoulders as he met him thrust for thrust. He gasped, fumbling to get a hand on his dick, stroking rapidly in time to each of Geralt's thrusts, eyes locked on his.

He remembered Geralt looking at him like this once before, in the hallway the other night.

He gasped as he came, arching under Geralt's touch, feeling the other man pound into him. Geralt tensed, thrusting harder, and he felt so much bigger, and if Jaskier could have gotten harder, he would have, as Geralt came inside of him.

"You look better with my dick in you," Geralt husked, nuzzling him as he pulled out.

Jaskier shuddered at the loss, predominantly of the hot weight of Geralt, and relaxed as the other man wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close.

"Told you I would," Jaskier murmured.

Silence settled between them, the kind of dozy after-glow that Jaskier loved to bask in. And by basking in it, he absolutely meant cat napping through it. He woke a few times to Geralt kissing him, eager to return his affection, but there was nothing hurried about it. No rush. It was the kind of sleep meant to be interrupted with lazy kisses and blowjobs. Sometimes, it was the kind of glow that had him pull out an instrument and sing ballads to his lovers, but his lute was on the other side of the room, and Geralt was warm and comfortable here.

"We wasted so much time."

"We made it here," Jaskier replied, trailing his fingers across Geralt's chest hair. "That's what counts."

Geralt kissed him, warm and tender, and Jaskier thought he could be happy doing this for the rest of his life. It was a scary, sobering thought he would explore later. For now, he had Geralt and he would continue having him for however long as this thing between them lasted. The longer, the better, Jaskier thought, drifting off.


	13. Wherever You Stray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So there's a lot more content I thought I would be able to fit into here, but then I looked at the word count and remembered I haven't eaten all day and decided to cut the chapter's planned content in half. 
> 
> So I'm gonna post this, eat lunch at 4pm, take an hour or two break, and then I'll start working on the next chapter with the rest of my planned content. 
> 
> End chapter count is going to finish somewhere between 18-21 chapters.

###  Chapter Thirteen, Wherever You Stray, I Follow 

“We’ve wasted so much time,” Jaskier murmured, running his fingers across the medallion Geralt wore. “We could have been doing this for months.”

“We still have time,” Geralt replied, fingers trailing along Jaskier’s scalp soothingly. “We’re not in a rush.”

Jaskier traced the wolf head with his thumb. “I’m leaving in, what, a month?” Less, he knew. Then he’d be back in Oxenfurt to graduate before heading out into the great wide world to make a name for himself. Kaer Morhen didn’t fit into those plans; it was more than just a little out of the way.

Geralt shrugged.

“How come I’ve never seen you wear this before?” Jaskier asked instead, rolling onto his elbows. 

“We all wear one,” Geralt said, glancing at his medallion. His fingers trailed down the back of Jaskier’s neck, sending delightful sparks tumbling down his spine. “Once we’re ready to set out on our own, we had one made for us. For those who know what it means, it’s a sign they can ask us for help.”

“I like it,” Jaskier admitted. 

Geralt sat up, slipping the cord off his neck and onto Jaskier’s. “Keep it.”

Jaskier laughed sheepishly, touching the wolf-head medallion tenderly. “I’m hardly a Witcher.”

“You’re Witcher enough for me,” Geralt said, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “And fuck anyone who thinks otherwise,” he murmured.

Jaskier crawled on top of him, pressing their bodies together. And while Geralt likely had the energy, or stamina, or whatever, for a few more rounds, Jaskier was thoroughly spent. But he wanted -no, needed -to be close to him. He kissed him, once, twice, and then he lost count. Geralt’s hands were in his hair, and Jaskier’s beneath them as they traded breath. 

“You’re a big softy,” Jaskier whispered, staring down at Geralt.

Geralt shrugged easily, one hand sliding down to press the medallion against Jaskier’s chest. “This will vibrate when there’s magic being used, or if someone’s cursed.”

“Won’t you need it?”

“I’ll make another,” Geralt promised. “This one is yours now.”

Jaskier shifted until he was upright, glancing down at the necklace feeling an uncomfortable itch in the middle of his back. He touched the medallion carefully, glancing down at Geralt. Intense yellow eyes tracked his every movement, and he felt a shudder of prey instinct pass through him. Although he wasn’t entirely sure that was the best phrase for it, because if he had the energy left, he would have been pulsing with desire against Geralt’s thigh. Because he liked it so very much.

“I’ll wear it all the time,” Jaskier said, kissing his cheek.

There was more kissing, and soft, quiet touches. And then the sun was up, impossible to ignore, and it felt natural as Geralt followed him into the shower. Terrifying, too. Like it was something Jaskier hadn’t done before, and he realized as they walked naked into the attached bathroom, that he hadn’t. As they stood under the hot water, Jaskier fumbled with his body wash in a hapless kind of way. He felt like he should attempt to hide himself, but Geralt had seen everything. They’d slept together, they’d had sex even. But suddenly Jaskier was hyper aware of his moles, of the few and far between scars, of the tattoo on his back. Did Geralt like what he saw? 

But Geralt tipped his head back, working shampoo through his hair, eyes closed against the water and Jaskier felt foolish. He poured the soap out, working it between his hands, almost shyly watching Geralt. He felt like he was ogling the man, like it was obscene, but there was nowhere else to look except his body. At his abs, and his broad, muscular shoulders. The scars etched across his body painting a vivid picture of close-calls. Just last night Jaskier had kissed the jagged line across Geralt’s ribs, and the smaller ones down his abdomen. He startled when Geralt’s rough hands settled on his hips, slowly, gently, pulling him back until they were flush underneath the vast spray of water. 

Geralt smeared soap across his chest, down his body to his ass and then respectfully up his back. Jaskier squirted more soap out, rubbing it across Geralt’s shoulders and back. And it was truly terrifyingly intimate, but he kind of loved it. The quiet intensity Geralt set about washing him with, the surprising gentleness of his hands, and his dedication to the task at hand. Even though Jaskier was capable of doing it himself, it wasn’t about that. Touching. Being intimate without sex. 

Jaskier felt like he’d been left adrift, without a life jacket or anything to ground him. Only, it was him and Geralt alone in the shower. And while there was nothing scary or uncomfortable about it -Jaskier had never known anyone like this. He’d never let someone else look at him, naked, in the bright light of the bathroom, under the spray of water. It was the horror and ordeal of being known, of being measured in Geralt’s every glance and touch, and the desperation to be found wanting. To be enough. Was he pleasing to Geralt’s eye? Certainly he’d pleased others before, and certainly last night had been a delight, but was he enough?

And when the soap was gone, Geralt took the shampoo and worked it into Jaskier’s hair with patience. And it was magical, and it was bliss, and Jaskier closed his eyes and leaned against Geralt. It was no less of an ordeal with his eyes closed, with the amount of trust he was giving to Geralt, but he was relaxed. And he didn’t, not for a second, fear that Geralt would drop him. He let Geralt wash the soap from his hair, wash the soap from Geralt’s hair, and then they kissed under the warm spray of water, and their bodies pressed together without need or urgency. 

They dressed in silence. Geralt in the same clothes he’d worn yesterday, but without a hint of shame. Jaskier in fresh jeans and a comfortable t-shirt, with Geralt’s necklace underneath his shirt. Downstairs they found Vesemir and a full table of food, who took one look at them and smiled. 

“Finally pulled your heads out of your asses, I see,” he said. “Sit down, eat.”

So they did. It was as simple as that, and Jaskier fell into the comfortable silence with something like relief. After, Jaskier went down with Geralt to help with his latest project, and if they spent a good hour naked in the grass, well, there were no witnesses other than the trees and the wind and the great sky above them. They joked and poked fun at one another and it was comfortable, and horribly domestic. Jaskier hammered his thumb a few too many times, and Geralt took that privilege away from him. (And really, who knew using a hammer was even a privilege?) But it was, because the rest of the project was mostly drudgery. But Jaskier did it, without complaining. Because he got to be close to Geralt, and being next to him was a little intoxicating. 

They returned for dinner, eating with Vesemir, swapping war stories about monsters and people and then they retired for the night. Vesemir left first, and Jaskier and Geralt did the dishes, standing together bumping shoulders. Jaskier’s heart beat quick. But they didn’t say goodnight there. Geralt turned, drying his hands on the cloth as Jaskier finished draining the sink. Geralt kissed him, soft and sweet, drawing him in, and if Jaskier were a shorter man he would have tried to climb him like a tree. But he settled for pressing against him, one hand buried in his hair, the other slipping under Geralt’s waistband, tongues teasing one another instead. Geralt’s hand cradled Jaskier’s face, his other kneading his ass. 

But for all their making out, it wasn’t hurried, or with desperation or urgency. At some point, Jaskier ended up pinned between the counter and Geralt. He could feel every slow undulation of Geralt’s hips dragging their erections together, teasing him with a slow torture. He tried to grab for his hips, but Geralt caught his wrists in a swift motion, pressing kisses there. And Jaskier was helpless to resist. He sagged, letting the counter support him, whining with need as Geralt rolled his hips deliciously slow against his. He wanted more. He struggled against Geralt’s grip, who turned his kisses into soft nibbling bites on the inside of his wrist and his stomach did a funny flip.

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier gasped, wiggling his hips in vain trying to get physical contact. 

Geralt shifted, just slightly, his thigh between Jaskier’s. And he could feel the heat of him, could see his drool-worthy bulge, but there was nothing he could do except maybe rut against him. But there would be no dignity in it, and Jaskier didn’t want a thigh when he could have that exquisite cock against him. 

“Hmm?” 

“Please.”

“Please what?” Geralt teased, pulling back, hands loosely keeping Jaskier’s arms pinned.

Jaskier squirmed then, cock dragging against Geralt’s muscular thigh. “More.”

“More?” he asked, leaning in. “More kissing?” 

And then they were kissing, and Jaskier wasn’t about to protest that, even though it definitely wasn’t what he meant. Even though Geralt knew that it wasn’t what Jaskier really wanted. But he savoured every minute their lips were connected, that their tongues brushed, and their breath mingled. Geralt pulled back, thigh pressing against Jaskier’s erection and drawing a quiet groan from him. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier rasped, staring at him hungrily. He thrust against him, a short jab, eyes on Geralt’s. “Come here.”

“M already here,” Geralt replied, and there was a long, teasing edge to his lazy smile. 

“Wanna touch you,” Jaskier murmured, peaking down at Geralt’s impressive bulge. He wanted so badly. 

“This isn’t enough?” he asked slyly, rolling his thigh against Jaskier’s. 

“Not by a long shot,” Jaskier husked. “Let me show you what I want to do.”

Geralt stepped back, and Jaskier took full advantage to lunge forward and press their hard-ons together, bringing their lips together in a rough and clumsy kiss. He ached to get naked, to get Geralt naked, to bring their bodies together, but this wasn’t the place. He didn’t care if Geralt didn’t mind. In different circumstances, one where Witchers were less plentiful, Jaskier would have no qualms about fucking in a kitchen where no one else would know what happened. But enhanced senses left him paranoid, and he wasn’t going to put Vesemir’s nose to the test, so he grabbed Geralt by the hand and pulled him towards his bedroom.

It had been a quick dash to his room, following by fumbling hands and a bit of swearing as he pulled Geralt’s clothing off. Those blasted jeans in particular. But then they were naked, and he could see Geralt’s dick twitching, and Jaskier could feel his responding in kind. And he couldn’t remember who started it, but he rather thought it was him pressing forward, kissing Geralt with a desperate need, their erections rubbing together. Jaskier lifted his leg, angling them just right, and bearing his weight down until they were flat on their backs in bed.

“Shirt,” Geralt growled, reaching up to yank Jaskier’s last offending article of clothing off.

He hadn’t really noticed he still had it on, but it was a relief once it was gone and he could take both of them in hand and squeeze and stroke. He chuckled with pleasure, listening to the way Geralt groaned, watching his chest rise and fall and the flush of heat spread down his body. The way he arched off the bed when Jaskier stroked him just so, the way his quiet groans came from deep in the back of his throat, and the way his eyes were locked onto Jaskier’s. He looked entirely defenseless and kissable, and Jaskier wasted no time in plundering his mouth. The real treasure was his tongue, and the sinful way he played with Jaskier’s and the dirty promises their kiss guaranteed.

And then Jaskier was on his back, and Geralt was kissing down, down, down his body. The heat in his eyes was attractive and thrilling, and then Geralt’s mouth was on him and his thoughts stopped cold. Or hot. Because god, Geralt’s mouth was hot, and wet, and his tongue, oh, it was doing magic. Jaskier gasped as Geralt licked him, hips twitching as he attempted to keep still because it wasn’t sexy to force anyone into deep throating and he didn’t know what Geralt could do. But he felt amazing. And then he was sucking, and Jaskier swore, fisting the sheets with his hands, seeing stars. And he was close, he was so close, and his breath was coming faster, fingers squeezing in the sheets, and then Geralt pulled back.

Jaskier whined at the loss, and he didn’t care how he should have felt. Or what he should have done because there was only one thing he needed, and that was Geralt’s mouth on his dick. And it wasn’t there. Instead Geralt was kissing across his thighs, up his stomach, circling his navel before dipping inside. Jaskier half laughed, half groaned, hips straining with need until his cock bumped into Geralt’s stomach.

“You look good in bed,” Geralt husked, shifting until their erections brushed against one another. He reached across Jaskier, he was distantly aware of the strain, the shifting of the bed as his nightstand opened. “Any position in bed, is a good look on you.”

“Fuck me,” Jaskier growled, impatient. 

Geralt had the audacity to chuckle -the audacity! Jaskier rolled his hips, erections bumping against one another, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t. He felt like a pair of live wires sparking with need for Geralt, dancing with anticipation and demand. “Fuck me,” he demanded, eyes flicking to Geralt’s.

And then Geralt was kissing him, hot and rough, until Jaskier couldn’t make any more demands. He pressed his weight against Jaskier, hips hard against his own, and then pulled back until it was just the painfully slow drag of his dick against Jaskier’s. He found it hard to think. He found it hard to breathe. His world had narrowed down to the distance of their lips, the wet trail that Geralt left when he pulled back, the hard feel of him when he pressed forward. And then there was a finger inside of him, and Jaskier keened into the kiss shamelessly, until his world was Geralt. 

It didn’t take much for Geralt to push a third finger in him, and by then they were both too far gone to want to spend more time with just Geralt’s fingers in him. Jaskier whined, stretched, shifted and would have begged for it, but then Geralt was moving. Jaskier stilled with anticipation, licking his lips as Geralt lined them up. He shifted obligingly, moaning as Geralt slid in. It took Geralt only a few thrusts, maybe three, but no more than five before Jaskier was cumming. He liked being underneath Geralt, he decided rather dazedly, watching as Geralt thrust into him. Geralt groaned, deep and low, and his thrusts stuttered as he came with a sharp gasp.

When Jaskier opened his eyes next, Geralt was washing them down with a warm cloth. He didn’t even think, reaching out to pull Geralt in close, which was more like dragging Geralt back down on top of him. And they they were kissing, slow and lazily, no intent to go anywhere. At some point, Jaskier dozed off like that, arms around Geralt, their faces pressed close together, damp cloth in Geralt’s hand. He didn’t care. When he woke, the sun was up, and they got to do the day all over again.

They showered together; and Geralt washed him down, and it was less terrifying than yesterday. Geralt left to his rooms, and Jaskier went down for breakfast. Vesemir didn’t comment, and Jaskier wondered what this was, exactly. Geralt joined them minutes later in a red tee and jeans, wolfing his meal down as he talked about how the new project was coming along. And then the big question came. And Jaskier supposed he should have seen it coming, should have known it was inevitable, but it still caught him completely off-guard.

“How’s your project going?” Vesemir asked. “Must be almost complete by now. Do we get to listen?”

Geralt turned to him, open curiosity in his eyes. Jaskier choked on his scrambled eggs, cleared his throat, choked again and downed a glass of water until he could breathe again. 

“Once I’m done,” Jaskier said.

“You aren’t done yet?” Vesemir asked, and there was worry in his voice. 

Jaskier shook his head, smiling nervously. Because he wasn’t even close to being done. He’d been so caught up in reading, in living in Geralt’s world, that he had rather forgotten why he was here. And why it mattered that he was here, because he was meant to bring attention to this little place in the middle of nowhere so it could continue surviving as a heritage site. Kaer Morhen needed the publicity, and all Jaskier had written was a song or three about his feelings here. He stared at his food, suddenly losing his appetite and got to his feet. 

Because if he didn’t finish by the time August ended, by the time he got back to Oxenfurt, his entire life would be put on hold. And he wasn’t going to let that happen. So he excused himself and went to his rooms, where he proceeded to comb through his notes. The stories about Witchers he liked, the scraps of songs he’d started writing, the damn lute and that cursed library. He thought about the sword fights, and wishes and genies, and Keira. 

And he had an album to make. Because nothing else could give Kaer Morhen the glory she deserved. Of course it wasn’t quite so easy as just realizing he had an entire album to compose, because he didn’t have the music to squeeze into it, or the lyrics he needed, but he did have a starting point. He thought of Geralt, he thought of the broken down parts of Kaer Morhen, and the tender love and care that had gone into her upkeep and the words tripped over themselves in their haste to get out. 

When a humble bard graced a ride along, Jaskier wrote. The words came easily. He didn’t use Geralt’s name, changing it to the White Wolf of Rivia where needed and kept writing until all the words were there on the paper. He grabbed his lute and strummed, and the song was there. He scribbled down the notes, the acoustics he would need to really amplify the sounds he wanted to bring in. Something he could only do in Oxenfurt, of course. And, thinking of the Wolf Witchers, it was easy to write about the great loners, about the infamous Song of the White Wolf. 

He wrote about a knight who was taught to save dragons, he wrote about the Last Rose of Cintra, he wrote about the Law of Surprise. He started an idea, something to do with pretty ballads and bastard truths that he would be working on for days more yet. He wrote about djinns and the Last Wish, and then crossed it all out. Because it was a love song, about a woman fleeing dreams in the morning, and the scent of sweet lilac and tart gooseberry. Violet eyes, and hearts binding by an ever growing ire. It was the Wolven Storm. His heart ached, his head pounded.

It wasn’t as though the songs were completed, not nearly, he would be spending the next weeks tweaking them but it was a start. Despite having spent more than half the day holed up with just pen and paper, his lute, and his aching brain, he wasn’t anywhere near even being halfway done. He thought about Vesemir, about Jack the Ripper; he thought about Lambert, and the song oozed out of his hand more like wobbly letters in the outline of an idea about becoming a beast. Because the media had certainly demonized him, and there was a wealth of inspiration he could draw from. 

He’d spent months this summer gathering items for just this project, and now he was ready to process them, the ideas were jumping from his head to his hand and to paper rapidly. He wouldn’t be able to keep them all, of course. But he wrote about wandering travellers, he wrote about cursed werewolves, and he wrote about the Beast of Beauclair and the vampire that saved the world. He wrote about prosecuted and terrified elves, and the kinship Witchers felt towards them, about the alienation of being Othered. Lastly, he wrote about Kaer Morhen. About her crumbling walls held up with love, the shelter she’d given to hundreds of lost boys, of dead men, about her protection from mobs and looters. He wrote about how she meant everything in the world to the man who meant the most to him.

Jaskier’s hand still. The pen quivered in his grasp.

The man who meant the most to him…? No. They were just… They were just living life. And it was comfortable, and fun, and thrilling and good. Good. He and Geralt were good together, weren’t they? He bounced the pen against the page, dimly annoyed with the way his head ached. He resisted the urge to skim his pages, to find the pieces about Geralt he had been writing, but he couldn’t stop now or he would never finish. He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of Kaer Morhen, thinking of the man who put the repairs in. The smithy few would take the time to appreciate, the ring where swords clattering together would mean less, and project the carpenter was working on even now. 

And it wasn’t really a song about Kaer Morhen. It was a song about the men who had built her, and the man who maintained her walls. Her authenticity. The men who honoured her history, and the way she had kept them safe from bloodshed, and the final piece of the Witcher’s legacy. Because they would eventually die. But she would still be here. And no one would remember Geralt, or Vesemir, or Lambert or Eskel and Jaskier couldn’t imaging living in a world where no one knew who they were. Or what they’d done. And he’d made his promises to Lambert, and he wasn’t going to break them. So he wrote about Kaer Morhen, about the men who loved her, and the men she’d sheltered. 

And by the time he was finished, his hand was numb, and his stomach was growling. But there was a knock at his door. Jaskier got up, stretching, and found Geralt there with a picnic basket that smelled divine and a bottle of expensive wine. Jaskier reached behind him, flicking his notebook shut and setting several history books on top for added measure. No one was going to be reading any of that until, well, until he’d had time to think.

“Hungry?”

Jaskier’s stomach growled noisily. “Starving.”

“I have a place we can go.”

Jaskier’s heart did a funny twist, and he wondered if this was what love was. What real love was. Because this was different, he thought, from his flings. From his one night stands. From the people he’d fallen into and out of love with in the course of hours. Had that been infatuation? But when had he felt those beginning stirs of infatuation around Geralt? When had they changed? Become _this?_ Whatever this was, whatever it meant.

He wanted to say no, to stay inside, curled around his writing and lute, where he could explore this idea privately. But his heart thumped. And no matter how desperately he wanted to sit back down in that chair, to scan his songs, to read every lyric a thousand times over, to try and learn what had changed, he found he couldn’t say no. 

So, he nodded and stepped forward. Geralt caught his hand with his own and pressed a kiss to his temple. “How did writing go?”

Jaskier found he couldn’t talk. That he was scared, for once, of what he might say. At the magnitude of his feelings, of that little flip his stomach seemed to do whenever Geralt looked at him. Because he didn’t understand.

“Good,” he said, with difficulty. 

Because there was no room in his plans for love or anyone else.

Because he was leaving in a month, graduating a week after that, and then going to travel the world. And Geralt would stay here, working on Kaer Morhen. 

Geralt wouldn’t go with Jaskier. And even if he could… Jaskier couldn’t imagine him enjoying any of it for a second. 

Perhaps, more selfishly than that, Jaskier couldn’t imagine giving Geralt the time of day. Because it was his dream on the end of the line. Becoming a musician. Fame. Proving his grandparents wrong, proving to the world that he can do it… 

There wasn’t room for Geralt in that world. There wasn’t room for anyone except Jaskier. Was it selfish of him? He didn’t know. But he took Geralt’s hand and squeezed it, hard. For now, he had him. And would continue having him for as long as possible. The band around his chest seemed to loosen, and he wondered just what trouble he’d managed to walk himself into. Because this wasn’t part of the plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like this chapter! I'm really looking forward to seeing your comments. I hope last chapter wasn't too smutty or anything for anybody...
> 
> songs referenced in Jaskier's writing:  
> Toss a coin, Song of the White Wolf, the Knight Who Saved Dragons, Last Rose of Cintra, Law of Surprise from the Witcher Sountrack. (Only the first two have vocals)   
> Wolven Storm from the Witcher 3  
> Become the Beast by Karliene


	14. I'm All In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

###  Chapter Fourteen, I'm All In 

They walked down to the lake’s shore, where the water gently lapped at the beach. The breeze was just a shade colder than cool, and left inviting goosebumps running down Jaskier’s arms. He flopped down at the shore, looking across the expansive blue surface and tried to imagine living a life here. Doing this every night, with Geralt at his side. But there was a gaping hole -the same hole he’d been living with for nearly six months. No friends, no people, no stage. No one cheering his name. He leaned against Geralt as the other man settled down beside him. He imagined a quiet life for them, here in the middle of nowhere, with Geralt’s rare smiles and quiet encouragement and he wanted it.

But not as much as he wanted to be standing on a stage, microphone in hand, crowds cheering his name. What was life without that?

Geralt started pulling food out, sandwiches and an assortment of veggies and fruits. Jaskier was charmed to see he’d even brought ingredients for s'mores. Life in the great outdoors wasn’t complete without a good s'more, as any decent city person knew. They didn’t talk, as they ate, instead sitting in companionable silence as the sun dipped beneath the horizon and the chill grew just a touch too unbearable. By then, the sandwiches and veggies were gone, and Geralt was pulling a blanket it out and draping it around Jaskier.

And Jaskier loved him for it.

His eyes widened.

He turned, staring at Geralt in shock.

Geralt smiled back, small and hesitant, eyes searching Jaskier’s. Was this alright, he seemed to be wondering. And Jaskier wondered how many times Geralt had been asking that. How many times had he missed that expression? He blinked, and the emotion was gone, and he wondered if he’d misunderstood. Because he could understand falling in love with Geralt -just look at this picnic, at the fire he was working to build -but what was special about Jaskier?

He would have blustered and bluffed if anyone asked him. But in the quiet nature, with himself and Geralt side by side, he knew any reasonable person would find him wanting. He was a musician. He’d never make a living off it, no matter how talented or desperate he was for it. And he was desperate for it, he would bleed for the life of being a celebrity. If all he could manage was mediocre fame, and if all he could manage was to tour one country a year, it was further than he’d ever toured before. He couldn’t provide for a family. And though he knew he had it in him to be famous, to make a name for himself, it would have been insane to rely on that gut feeling alone. 

He was annoying and too much to deal with all the time. He was loud, potentially obnoxious and prone to pettiness and cattiness when the opportunity came. He was needy for attention, of any kind, and he wasn’t afraid to demand it or take it when he wanted. Jaskier was all of those things and more, and that anyone could know him and love him was baffling. 

He glanced at Geralt, watching as he spread his hands and sent a blast of heat rolling over the logs he’d gathered. Geralt was a living legend, an actual hero. He’d saved lives, he’d done meaningful things with his life and lived a hundred years or more than Jaskier ever had. How did Geralt even see him? An annoying, yet incredibly sexy tag-along most likely. But Jaskier was more than okay with being that to Geralt, so long as at night he got to take him apart. So long as he had the Witcher necklace.

Maybe he’d never been anything to anyone else in his life. An annoying kid. An obnoxious brat. A prideful bastard. He set his hand on the necklace around his neck. He wasn’t even a good Witcher, but he was good enough for Geralt. He could live with that, he thought. He dragged the blanket and basket up to the fire, spearing a marshmallow on a provided skewer. He watched Geralt as he watched him, yellow eyes gentle and relaxed, and thought he could live a life like this. Quiet, in the country. He could keep his hands busy, his mind occupied, and he’d always have time to write and sing and perform music.

For a crowd of one. 

His stomach flipped uncomfortably. He pushed the feeling away and moved to sit beside Geralt as they roasted marshmallows and made s'mores. Eventually, when his hands were sticky, when there was chocolate in places it shouldn’t be, when they’d kissed under the stars beside the fire that had burned low, they made their way back to Kaer Morhen and Jaskier’s room. They kissed, slow and sweet, and tumbled into bed together until they weren’t two people but one. Until they were skin-to-skin, lips pressed together in breathless ecstasy, chasing the other’s pleasure with wild abandon. 

The ticking clock that chimed away above their heads, that crossed the days off the calendar as September edged ever nearer didn’t escape them, either. Jaskier spent his mornings with Geralt, mostly in bed, before they would shower and eat a late breakfast. They’d kiss quietly in the kitchen, and Geralt would go to work and Jaskier would go back to his room to write. To sing, to come up with the chords and the tune and everything else he needed. And he needed it all.

“Eskel’s coming home next week,” Vesemir said over dinner that night. 

“He knows plenty about the Witchers,” Geralt said, cutting into his steak. “He’s been doing restorations here for as long as I can remember.”

“He’ll be here for the winter,” Vesemir said warmly. 

Next week… Jaskier’s fingers drummed against his thigh. Next week was his last week here. He glanced at Geralt, but the man seemed very focused on cutting his steak. 

“I could show you the city,” Jaskier blurted, feeling his cheeks heat. “If you came to Oxenfurt, I mean.”

Geralt looked up at him slowly, blinking.

“When I leave. You could be my guest, for a few days at least. The semester won’t start up right away, and you can be there when I perform.”

“I…” Geralt trailed off, his expression closed off.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Vesemir said. “I would go if I could.”

“I wish you could!” Jaskier added, and he meant it. It wasn’t like he wanted a few extra days with Geralt, even though he very desperately did. He liked Vesemir.

“Geralt will have to record a performance for me.”

“Nothing like a live rendition,” Geralt said through clenched teeth, setting his knife down forcefully.

“I wouldn’t dare put our dear Jaskier on the spot.”

Jaskier bit his lip, trying not to smile. Because he might not put Jaskier on the spot, but he certainly didn’t mind putting Geralt on it. “I need to record them at the university anyway,” Jaskier said. “Figure out how they’ll sound outside my head. And you don’t have to come, but I thought it’s the least I could do, show you around Oxenfurt, I mean.”

Geralt sighed, looking between Jaskier and Vesemir, expression somewhere between a caged tiger and a hungry wolf. 

“Eskel will be home, Geralt,” Vesemir said kindly. “I’ll be okay.”

Jaskier blinked and felt sheepishly because he’d never once thought about how Geralt might feel leaving Vesemir on his own. But something about it, the relief of it, perhaps, had Geralt’s shoulders relaxing and the caged expression left his eyes. 

“Fine,” he said begrudgingly. “I’ll go.”

Jaskier smiled brightly. Geralt had taken his time to show Jaskier his world, and while Oxenfurt wasn’t nearly as mysterious, it did have its points of beauty that Jaskier would make sure he saw. Including a performance by Jaskier himself. It would be a great time.

That night, Geralt came to his room and kissed him like they would never kiss again. It was a desperate kiss. A lonely kiss. Jaskier fell into his arms willingly, holding Geralt close like he might never get another chance. And he might not, because they had little more than a week to spend together. Geralt trailed kisses down his skin, across every inch of his body until he was aching for him. He could feel Geralt throbbing against him, but he made no effort to please either of them that way. Jaskier closed his eyes for a heartbeat, gasping, and crying out softly when Geralt took him into his mouth.

And it was heaven, it was sin, and Jaskier had never loved anyone as much as he did Geralt. The man worked his tongue like a god, eased a finger in, and left Jaskier moaning his name. Geralt sucked him like there was nowhere else he’d rather be, like they had all the time in the world, thrusting his fingers into him. And he hummed, and he licked, and Jaskier came with his name on his lips. He dragged Geralt up, breathless, and spent but so eager to return the favour when Geralt stopped him. Geralt kissed him, a brief, firm press of their lips together as he handed the bottle of lube to Jaskier.

For the first time, Jaskier had the sheer pleasure of watching Geralt come undone at his fingertips. He wasn’t noisy about it, but he squirmed delightfully, arched his body into Jaskier’s every touch like a dying man. His eyes were blown wide with lust, and Jaskier didn’t care that his lips had just been on Jaskier before he devoured them in an eager kiss. Teeth cracked together, and Jaskier pulled back with a breathless laugh. 

“Fuck, my bad,” he said, staring at Geralt adoringly. “You look amazing like this.”

“Then do something about it,” Geralt husked, tilting his head back as he shifted to get a better angle. He gasped, a rugged sound torn from deep in his throat and Jaskier twitched against him.

“You shouldn’t have blown me so good,” Jaskier retorted. “I’d have been inside you already.”

“That a complaint?”

“No!” Jaskier replied urgently. “No, never.” 

They were kissing them, soft and sweet and tender, and Jaskier never wanted to stop. He curled his fingers just right, feeling Geralt spasm around him, and he thought about being able to do this forever. Taking Geralt apart with a simple motion, with his words, his mouth, a glance. It was appealing and so close to his grasp. He could have this and more, and hearing Geralt groan his name, seeing his reflection in his eyes, there was nothing Jaskier wanted quite so badly.

He pulled his fingers free, lining them up. He watched Geralt’s eyes widen with lust, the way his grip on Jaskier changed from loose and pliant to excited, and Jaskier pushed in easily until they were flush together. And then he moved, slow at first, relishing in the tight heat of Geralt around him. Slowly, he eased until only his tip was inside of him before sliding back in with a moan. He didn’t think he could keep the tortuously slow pace for long, but he repeated it, watching Geralt heatedly. Geralt caught his hand, and they linked fingers as Jaskier fucked Geralt lazily, slowly, savoring every thrust. 

Geralt’s arm curled around Jaskier’s shoulder, pulling him into a rough, desperate kiss. His hand spread across the nape of Jaskier’s neck, his fingers pressing against Jaskier’s as his body met every thrust. Every touch. He was so eager, so desperate, and Jaskier’s knees shook. He felt it stirring, and thrust faster, his free hand wrapping around Geralt’s member. He was painfully hard, leaking there, and Jaskier stroked him as he thrust. Geralt moaned, eyes fluttering shut, and suddenly it was overwhelming. Geralt was overwhelming.

Here he was, naked and so open, so needy beneath Jaskier. This living legend who slaughtered monsters, his eyes shut, clenched around Jaskier. Jaskier shifted, pulling Geralt tighter to him, closer, kissing him with a fierce need. And Geralt’s arms were around him, and it was everything, and Jaskier’s hips stuttered as he felt it roll over him, as he released everything into Geralt and felt Geralt spill into his hand. They were kissing, legs tangled, arms bumping together, and it didn’t matter. None of it did.

Because they were together. Jaskier wasn’t sure where he ended and Geralt stated, but he didn’t think it mattered. 

That night, Jaskier slept in Geralt’s arms and he wondered if this was what home felt like. The other nights were more passionate, more adventurous as though they were both excited to show off the range of talents they had. And Jaskier was. 

By the time Eskel arrived, Jaskier had nearly finished his album and returned his favourite pieces of literature. Geralt however, seemed more closed off and guarded than before. Jaskier wondered if Eskel knew about them. If Lambert did. Vesemir had to, but the old man had never commented on them, for which Jaskier was grateful. He wasn’t sure how he would have felt. Or how Geralt would have felt. But Jaskier respected that maybe Eskel didn’t know, or worse, maybe Geralt didn’t want Eskel to know. He should have been angry about it, he thought, or at least sad but he felt none of it. Geralt still came to bed with him every night, and, Jaskier hoped, he would for the rest of their lives.

Geralt had to feel the same, he thought. And it was love, he decided as he read through his songs in the privacy of his room. Because he’d never felt quite this way about anyone else before. He traced the words he’d written, the ones he’d crossed out, and his heart felt light. His chest felt light. He slept easy at night, like closing his eyes and sighing was all it took to get a decent night’s sleep, and he loved every minute of it. Because Geralt was amazing and it was impossible to think of anything but him. He pulled out the song he’d written for Kaer Morhen, though really, he’d written it for the Witchers.

He’d written it for Geralt.

But he couldn’t bring himself to show it, and he didn’t think he’d ever be brave enough to play it for him either. A room of strangers, sure. People who’d never met Geralt, who would never get to, it would be easy. But not to Geralt or Vesemir. The lyrics were gold, and he carefully tucked the page back into his notebook. One day he’d give it to Geralt, he was sure. But for now it was just part of his final album.

Eskel, he was pleased to discover, was reasonable. He teased Geralt like an older brother, and they were familiar with one another. Jaskier wondered what it was like to grow up the way they had, and found he couldn’t envy their camaraderie. He spent his evenings holed up in the library talking about every facet of Witcher culture and history he’d ever wondered about -and Eskel had the books to back up his claims. There were books about their persecution, books about their heroics and one little book about their exploits recorded as songs. 

And then, it was time. 

His last day at Kaer Morhen hit him like he’d just walked into a brick wall. His album was complete, his bedroom was half-empty, and breakfast was a feast of epic portions. There was pie and whipped cream. There were fresh fruits, and a gift from Vesemir. A wooden figure of wolf he’d carved. A book from Eskel, one of the few duplicates he’d ever found, about the myths of Witchers. Geralt gave him a hug, and his packed bag. 

They rode the horses into town with Eskel, chatting about Oxenfurt. Geralt nodded along, like he knew it all, and Jaskier realized he’d lived a century of life or more and had probably been there before. But he couldn’t stop talking, about the university, about Oxenfurt’s attractions, and he talked all the way down to Gynvael. Eskel clapped Geralt on the back in farewell and shook Jaskier’s hand before taking their horses and heading back to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier watched him go, glancing at the mountains that hid her impressive walls, and smiled. Because he would come back here, once everything was said and done. He’d be back.

They boarded together, and held hands. Jaskier chatted enthusiastically about whatever came to mind, until Geralt kissed him into silence. He napped, sometimes. He flipped through Eskel’s book when he could. And he wondered how it would feel to be back in the city.

They arrived in Oxenfurt in the early hours of morning, and Jaskier held Geralt’s hand as he walked him through the empty streets to the apartment room he shared with James. Unsurprisingly, James wasn’t at home. And Jaskier had told him he’d have a guest, because it wasn’t often his previous night stands only stayed for a few hours. But Geralt would be here a few days longer than that. Jaskier pulled him into his room, into his bed, and they cuddled well into daylight. But his bed didn’t feel right. The mattress was firm and thin, and the noise of cars outside was familiar and daunting all at once. It had been so long since he had heard the bustle of a city. A real city.

Jaskier took Geralt to the best restaurants. He took him to the tourist hot-spots and took pictures of them together. He brought him into the recording booth he had access to at the university and worked on creating his album while Geralt sat in the background. And brooded. Jaskier sang every song he’d written, with the exception of Toss A Coin and the Song of Kaer Morhen. He played with the vocals, the instruments, until he was as happy with them as he could be. But he could Geralt staring forlornly at the recording booth. At him.

“Something wrong?”

Geralt shook his head.

Jaskier saved his progress, feeling nervous for the first time in a long while. Or maybe it wasn’t so long, given that he generally felt that fluttering feeling whenever Geralt did something nice. But Geralt wasn’t being nice right now. People gave him a wide berth, some of them even crossed the street to avoid them both. So Jaskier took him to dinner, but Geralt didn’t talk. He barely even ate.

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier asked quietly. They were outside in the garden maze, tucked into a private corner he’d brought many past lovers to make out with. 

He hadn’t even kissed Geralt once.

“We only have two days left, you know,” Jaskier said, watching his expression for a clue. Any clue, any insight into his beautiful mind.

“I know.”

“Are you sad?”

Geralt glanced at him.

No, then. “We aren’t breaking up after this,” Jaskier said, somewhat anxiously. “We can do long distance.”

“Let’s not do this now.”

“Do what now?” his voice broke on the final word. He set his fork down. He cleared his throat. “Do what now, Geralt?”

“It’s going to be worse tomorrow, and worse the day after.”

“Of course it is,” he snapped. “But I - I want to enjoy dinner with my -” he cut himself off. His boyfriend? They’d never had that conversation, not really. “With my best friend, for tonight. Tomorrow is tomorrow.”

Geralt’s expression softened. “It’s good food, Jaskier,” he said, taking a bite.

Somehow, Jaskier didn’t think he really meant it. The mood officially ruined, Jaskier didn’t bother trying to make out with him. They ate in not-quite-comfortable silence. They walked home, and James was kind enough to set up a few battery-operated candles and threw a handful of rose petals around haphazardly. Jaskier would pay him for it later, send him an e-transfer most likely, but it was just a sore sight to look at when he brought Geralt home. They settled on the couch and Jaskier threw on his favorite film, as though it could take the sting away of a miserable night, of a miserable week.

Because Geralt would leave in two days, and Jaskier would be alone.

“Tomorrow,” Jaskier said quietly, “I’m going to take you to where I perform. And I’d like it if you could pretend to be happy. To enjoy yourself.”

Geralt was quiet for a long minute. “Okay.”

They slept together that night, a foot apart on Jaskier’s queen bed, both of them clinging to the edge of the bed like they couldn’t bear to touch one another. Like two straight guys determined to no-homo it. He clenched his eyes shut. He would go back to Kaer Morhen after all this, after he’d graduated, and things would be normal again. Was it a hasty decision? A voice in the back of his mind wondered. He’d only known Geralt for six months. They’d barely been sleeping together for more than a month and Jaskier didn’t even know if they were a couple. He’d thought they were. Did Geralt see it differently?

Jaskier rolled over, staring at Geralt’s back. It was a hasty decision but one he wouldn’t regret. Because Geralt was… important. Jaskier couldn’t say how or why. Just that he knew he needed Geralt in his life. He reached out slowly, fingertips brushing strands of Geralt’s hair. He licked his lips, formed the words on his lips, and found his mouth was dry. This wasn’t how he said it. This wasn’t the time or place. Geralt was upset, really, and Jaskier couldn’t blame him. He scooted closer, slowly, giving Geralt time to indicate his contact was unwanted. But he didn’t. So Jaskier spooned him, arm and leg draped over his, pressed against him casually. 

He didn’t sleep well, but Geralt didn’t shrug him off either. And that morning they kissed, soft and sweet, and it was like last night had never happened. They made love, slow and quiet, and intimate. It was overwhelming, and terrifying in equal spades, but Jaskier loved it. He loved Geralt. And he knew just how to tell him. 

They went out for lunch to a hipster place where everything was made of cheesecake, and Jaskier dropped Geralt off at the Oxenfurt library as he went and finished off his recordings. He handed the file to his professor, and picked Geralt up on his way to the club he liked to perform in. He spoke at length about the various memories he had here, stories about his friends, about a past lover or two, and bought Geralt dinner and a drink. They held hands under the table, Geralt’s foot pressed against Jaskier’s and everything was good in the world.

They called him on stage an hour later, and he gave Geralt a wink and a kiss on the cheek before bolting for the stage. His nerves settled, and he grabbed the mic and hollered a boisterous greeting. It was a packed night, every table full or close-to, and his regulars cheered his name and Jaskier grinned. Because if there was one place in the world he felt more at home, it was on stage. Geralt’s arms, of course, a very close second.

“I bet you all missed me!” Jaskier called, grinning at the familiar faces he knew. “I decided to huff it out in the country, get some new songs written. This one’s my favourite, and I wrote it for a very dear friend of mine!”

The music started, as he’d slipped the owner a copy of Toss A Coin, and Jaskier belted out the words by heart. From his heart. His eyes kept wandering over to Geralt though, desperate to know, desperate for his feedback. The crowd roared their approval, and Jaskier moved on to the next song, an old familiar for his regulars, before slipping into a ballad that was always a crowd favourite. By the time it was over, he caught a flash of silver hair disappearing out the front door.

Jaskier jumped off the stage, mic left behind, and shouldered his way through the crowd until he was outside. 

“Geralt?” he asked, hating the way his voice quavered on his name. 

The other man stiffened and turned to face him. There was wary resignation in his eyes, and Jaskier knew. He just knew. In a minute’s time he would be standing here taping his broken heart back together.

“What did I do?” he asked, voice little more than a whisper. “Was it - was it the song?”

“It’s not you,” Geralt said haltingly. He reached out, an aborted gesture before drawing his arm back. “You said it yourself. This would last while it could, for as long as it can. And then we let it fizzle out.”

“This isn’t letting it fizzle.”

“Might as well get it over with now than in six months when you’re across the world singing to a crowd of people who love you more than you can love yourself.”

Jaskier flinched. “I -no. Geralt, this isn’t what I want.”

“And I don’t want you to come back to Kaer Morhen,” he said roughly, staring at Jaskier coldly. “You’re talented. And you’ll waste your life doing nothing, just so you can feel love.”

It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over his head. Jaskier sputtered, humiliated, horrified and achingly hurt. But he couldn’t get the words out. 

“Don’t come back to Kaer Morhen. I won’t be there if you do.”

“Geralt,” he said, forcing the words out. He blinked his eyes, swallowing tightly. “Geralt, be reasonable. This is. I don’t understand.”

“Forget us. The world has, and you’ll be better off if you do the same.”

His heart cracked. And he ached with the emotion of it, the shame of it. “Spending my life with the man I - the man I _love_ isn’t a waste. And it could never _be_ a waste.”

“Then you’re a coward too scared to face reality.”

Jaskier blinked back hot tears, meeting Geralt’s gaze fearfully. Because the softness that had been there, was gone. It was gone. Replaced by an angry scowl, and cold yellow eyes.

“Why even come here?” Jaskier whispered. “Why bother? If you didn't - if we were never -why?”

“Because I’m selfish too,” Geralt said roughly, voice quiet. But it echoed in the space between them, reverberating inside Jaskier’s chest. “And I didn’t want to disappoint Vesemir.”

Sometimes, you wonder. Wonder when, exactly, things changed. Jaskier didn’t have a date or a time. He didn’t know when he fell in love with Geralt. He couldn’t point out one single moment where their animosity changed to friendship, or when friendship gave way to affection. But this? 

He would never wonder about the moment his heart completely shattered.

“You loved me,” Jaskier said, forcing each word out. “You. Loved. Me.” He stared at him, desperate, pleading. He knew Geralt did. Geralt had loved him, hadn’t he?

Eons seemed to pass. People walked past them, chatting, arms linked together. Other club patrons left, others went inside. But none of that mattered. The world for Jaskier had narrowed down to this moment, this second, this awful feeling in his chest. It hurt. And he didn’t understand it.

 _“You_ loved me,” Geralt corrected, quietly. Patronizingly.

Jaskier opened his mouth, and wished he could take back every word he’d said. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to go on stage, open with Toss A Coin, play a few crowd favourites, get them worked up and then he was going to perform the Song of Kaer Morhen. Geralt’s song. And then he was going to tell him he loved him, because he was a romantic. 

A stupid, soft-hearted romantic.

“You came out here, you did all this, just to… end things, where Vesemir wouldn’t see?” Jaskier scoffed. “You’re pathetic.”

“Better than fooling myself.”

“You’d know all about that,” Jaskier said shortly. Cruelly. “At least I didn’t go around making wishes, forcing someone to love me when they didn’t. So at least I have that, right?”

Geralt didn’t flinch. It was unsatisfying. But Jaskier knew the words found their mark. 

“You -came all this way because of Vesemir? Because you don’t want me to waste my life?” He rubbed his forehead. “Fuck, I’m an idiot. Because if I went back, it’d be for a lie, right? You never, what, liked me? What was I -was I just -just convenient for you!?”

Geralt didn’t answer.

Jaskier was breathing hard. His hands were clenched into fists, and he’d never wanted to hit someone quite so badly in his life.

“I needed to know if I could move on,” Geralt whispered.

Jaskier didn’t think it could hurt worse.

It could.

It could, and it did, it did.

He clenched his eyes shut. “Oh,” he said, voice trembling. “Well.” He reached up, fumbling at his neck until he’d pulled the cord off. “You can have this back then.”

“No.” Geralt met his gaze, yellow eyes hard. “You know our secrets. You need something to keep you safe.” He paused, and it was weighty, and awful and Jaskier hated every second of it, hated the way it felt like when Geralt opened his mouth next it would just be to deal a killing blow. “I wouldn’t want to have to come and rescue you.”

Jaskier clenched his hand around the medallion, feeling the rough imprint of the wolf on the palm of his hand. “Fuck you,” he hissed. “I’m not your plaything.”

He turned on his heel and stomped inside, hot tears rolling down his cheeks.

He drank until he forgot why he didn’t want to sing, and then he sang the Song of Kaer Morhen, to an awed crowd while tears rolled down his cheek. And when a talent agent approached him with a deal, he accepted with a smile and not a second of hesitation. He took an Uber home, eyes wet, heart broken. Part of him expected to see Geralt there, because he'd left his bag behind. Jaskier inhaled sharply, a pained, broken sound. He'd left his bag behind. He hated it. He should throw it out, burn, donate it. 

He picked it up, buried his nose in the scent of lemongrass and juniper, and cried. It was messy, snotty, ugly crying. His heart was supposed to feel better, after. Once it was done. Once the tears stopped coming. But it was like he was dried out, because there were no tears, just snot smeared across the bag, across his face. His eyes hurt. His head pounded. And he was still holding Geralt's stupid fucking bag. And he wanted to be mad, angry and furious, but there was nothing. Sadness, mostly. Numbed with alcohol. Sharp with the ache of it, with the jagged pieces of his heart that were stabbing into his chest. Love wasn't supposed to be hard. And if it hurt, which it did, it hurt like nothing else, Jaskier supposed at least he could hold onto that feeling. Tangible as it was. He should have been elated tonight. He should have been overjoyed. He'd gotten a music deal! He'd be meeting the agent tomorrow to see about releasing the Song of Kaer Morhen and going from there.

He should have been excited. But his heart was too broken to beat, and he'd earned his reprieve. Just for a day. To cry and be miserable. After that, he wouldn't be sad again. Not if he could help it, anyway. This was his big chance, wasn't it. He'd make it big. He tried to imagine it, but all he could see were Geralt's cold eyes, and the gates of Kaer Morhen slamming shut behind him.

Jaskier never spoke about Kaer Morhen again, though the song went on to become one of his most well-loved pieces. But he still cried every time he performed it, a pair of haunting yellow eyes in his mind. But Geralt didn't get to control the story, or what Jaskier sang. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me.
> 
> There's a happy ending coming, I promise.


	15. The Sound of A Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the unplanned chapter. Kind of a bonus chapter, if you will. A peak into Geralt's mind.

### Chapter Fifteen, You're The Sound of A Song

Geralt hated that fucking song. It was everywhere, and it felt like he was the only person who knew what it was about. Who it was about. He probably was one of the only people who knew what it was about. And, he knew, he deserved it. More than deserved it. Having to hear the song when it was just a reminder of one of the best times in his life? 

He didn’t have anyone to blame but himself. Did it make it easier? No. But there was a certain justice in the fact that he wouldn’t be able to escape Jaskier, a certain sense of righteousness. Because he had been right. Jaskier was meant for more than a life Geralt could have given him.

But sometimes, it would be nice to go more than five minutes without being reminded. Of him. Of that summer.

It was fall now, the leaves reddened with age, fluttering and breaking off branches. Geralt wished he could live such an easy life. Just disappear into the wind, forget about the song, forget about Jaskier. Forget the summer. But he’d made a decision. Worse, he’d made it for Jaskier and one day the other man would know. He’d figure it out, he’d come storming into Kaer Morhen and they would fight.

Or, worse, infinitely worse, Jaskier would never come back. And hey, wasn’t that what Geralt wanted?

Yes.

No.

He couldn’t have lived with it, if Jaskier chose him. And look now, Geralt thought, scowling at the box of cereal in his hand. Jaskier was a household name. Jaskier wouldn’t have lived it either. Sure, he might have flourished in the beginning. If he’d come back to Kaer Morhen and decided to settle for love. Geralt’s love, in particular. He closed his eyes, let out an even breath, and dropped the cereal box into his cart. Jaskier was meant to perform, and if giving him up, forcing him to take an out, meant Geralt had to suffer with these damn feelings then he would. Willingly.

Jaskier deserved the world. Fame, fortune and everything else with it. He would do okay, Geralt knew. Hell, he was doing more than okay. He was going to be the opening act on a worldwide tour. Then, he’d release an album and Geralt would never escape him. Maybe even one day Jaskier would fall in love again. His heart thumped painfully at the thought. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it did -Geralt had made his grave, and he would live the rest of his life with it. 

Geralt never wanted to escape him.

He pushed the cart down the aisle. Jaskier would have chosen him, Geralt knew. He would have. His heart ached. He should have felt honoured, when he knew, when they were in Oxenfurt. When Jaskier held onto him, full of determination and love, and everything Geralt wanted from him. Jaskier would have come back to Kaer Morhen. Geralt didn’t deserve that. Worse, Jaskier didn’t either. One day Jaskier would have woken up, would have taken one look at Geralt, at the crumbling walls around them, at the life they’d live, and he would have regretted everything. 

He could live with it if Jaskier hated him. But he refused to survive, to witness, to live through a moment where Jaskier regretted anything they’d done together. Geralt thought of Renfri, of the other lives he’d tried and failed to save over the years -and he would do anything to keep Jaskier from feeling that kind of regret. He remembered the moment he could have saved Renfri if he’d bothered to make a decision, but he’d let her get turned into a vampire instead, and now she was another monster he’d have to face someday. A demon of his own making.

He stared at the soup cans blankly. Why did anyone ever put him in charge of shopping? It would have been wonderful in the beginning, with Jaskier, domestic and bright. Cheerful, even. But Jaskier would have grown bored. Geralt going on missions, keeping his hands busy repairing Kaer Morhen. Jaskier would have either followed him into danger, or grown to resent him. Because Jaskier could have gone on to become someone famous. 

Geralt sighed with relief when the song ended. Now, Jaskier had gone on to become someone famous. And he couldn’t be mad with him. He wasn’t. The Song of Kaer Morhen crushed his heart every time he heard it. It squeezed his chest tight until he couldn’t breathe. Jaskier had loved him. Guilt weighed heavily in Geralt’s chest, in his stomach, and he knew it by that name because it had been sitting there ever since he broke Jaskier’s heart. He’d rather spend his life feeling guilty than haunted by a failed relationship, and the resentment Jaskier would have grown to develop. Jaskier meant too much to him. 

What a selfish prick he was. Geralt grabbed a case of soup and set it in the cart, moving down the next aisle. He’d never told Vesemir what he’d done, but the older man knew, as summer receded into a mess of red and browns and Jaskier didn’t come back. Eskel had been there the night Geralt got home on foot. He’d taken one look at Geralt and known what he’d done. 

But he understood too. A castle of Witchers was no home for someone like Jaskier. Jaskier had brought life into her walls, a kind of peace they’d never known before. But it was the kind of light that could easily be snuffed out, too. So did Geralt feel guilty? Yes. Did he regret it? He grabbed a box of crackers. Did he regret it? He wondered. No, but he missed Jaskier. He would spend the rest of his life missing Jaskier, knowing Jaskier hated what he’d done, how he’d done it. And he knew Jaskier wouldn’t forgive him. 

At the time, all those months ago, he’d thought breaking up would save him from the resentment. Naive. He’d just shifted the course of it to immediate resentment instead of basking in months, or years worth of contentment together. Jaskier deserved someone better, and Geralt could live with that. He could live with the resentment, and he would survive hearing this song playing on the radio every other hour if it meant Jaskier got to live a better life than the one Geralt could have given him.

What did Geralt have to offer? His motorcycle, a horse, carpentry tools and the two swords strapped on his back. He could have offered Ciri; she would have loved Jaskier. 

“It doesn’t matter how you try to justify it,” Vesemir had said, when he’d dragged the story out of Geralt, “you know you can’t. You can’t apologize yourself out of this hole, Geralt.” 

He’d been so disappointed, too. Geralt hated that as much as he hated himself.

But monsters were made to disappoint. And if he’d let Jaskier convince himself otherwise… If he’d believed for a minute that Jaskier was right, then he’d undone all those kind words when he broke his heart. Geralt had lied, had deliberately picked the only two things he could think of that would convince Jaskier he meant every word. He’d hit every weak spot he knew to find. He might be a monster, but he didn’t have to play the part. 

It didn’t make it better.

It would never make it better.

Geralt swerved down the next aisle and froze, staring at a large cardboard cutout of Jaskier. Posed with his hands on his hips and a bright smile on his face. Hollow as the cardboard it was made on. Geralt exhaled sharply and kept walking. He stockpiled on the meat, adding extra now that he would be able to use Eskel’s truck to get around. They needed enough to last most of winter in case the pass drifted, and then they’d never be able to get out. He circled back to the soup aisle, grabbing a variety of canned vegetables, fruits and meats. He stopped to buy some graphic novels for Eskel, a few novels for him and Vesemir to share and as many jigsaw puzzles as he could find. He added a few of those adult colouring books that promoted wellness and anti-anxiety, and thought if they fixed how he felt therapists should just hand them out for free every session.

Therapy. His lip curled at the thought. He added a pack of dice, several candles and a fresh supply of batteries. He didn’t like therapy. But Eskel had insisted. Eskel hadn’t just insisted, he’d gone so far as to call Lambert and drag him into this mess. They’d threatened to tell Yenn, too. Eskel wouldn’t have had the balls, but Lambert would have done it in a heartbeat. (Eskel would have kept gently persuading him, talking about the benefits of doing it of his own free will and the freedom Eskel had found in therapy). Part of Lambert’s sentencing was attending group therapy, which he was all too eager to mock.

Geralt didn’t like it. Talking. To a stranger no less. He wheeled the cart up to the cashier, paid for it with his credit card and then hauled it into the back of the truck. He’d spent his first sessions sitting in silence, unable to open his mouth. But he thought of Ciri, and Yenn, and the lifetime of ruined bodies he’d left behind, of Jaskier’s broken heart… And talking didn’t seem so awful. He glanced at his watch anxiously as it ticked closer to his appointment, putting the truck in gear and driving down the street towards Kaer Morhen. Video calls with a therapist out of Oxenfurt always made him anxious.

He pulled over, halfway to Kaer Morhen and flicked the app open. He set his cell phone on the dash and adjusted until he was vaguely comfortably and scowling because he didn’t want to be here. He didn’t even know why he was doing this to himself. 

“Geralt!” Triss said warmly, smiling kindly. “How’ve you been this week?”

He opened his mouth, and then closed it. “His song was on the radio again.” He paused. “I didn’t leave the store, this time.”

“Did you practice breathing through it?”

Geralt nodded stiffly.

“That’s good, Geralt! I’m proud of you.”

He glanced out the window. He didn’t think it was anything special to take a few deep breathes and make everything… manageable. He clenched his hands on the steering wheel.

“It’s better,” Triss said, stubbornly kind. “You can go out grocery shopping without needing to exit the store every time you hear him on the radio. Which, I’ve noticed is rather often these days.”

“Woo,” Geralt said flatly, emptily. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, not looking at the camera. It was easier like this, watching his reflection, pretending it was a conversation with himself. 

“It’s a big improvement! Two weeks ago you were so upset you would just walk out of the stores. But today you breathed through it. You controlled it.”

Of course he did; he didn’t have emotions. Not like other people. Not like humans, but also not like his brothers. Stranded somewhere in the middle of both. “He has to live with what I put him through. I shouldn’t be making it easier to live through this.”

Triss made a sad noise, something halfway between an indignant response and a morose sigh. “Geralt. You have to stop punishing yourself.”

Did he? He unrolled the window, adjusting the mirror. “Do I?”

“You made a choice that you know was the right one. It was right for you in that moment, and regardless of the rest of the collateral damage, he’s thriving right now. Because of you.”

Geralt nodded stiffly.

“I think it would be good if you wrote him a letter.” Triss held her hands up to the camera, frowning sternly. “Now this doesn’t mean you have to send it. You can, if you think it would help, but it’s a letter for you.”

Geralt stared at her skeptically.

“I want you to write a letter to him, apologizing. Tell him how you felt, how you really felt. Be honest.”

“Apologies won’t dig me out of this mess.”

“This is a letter for you,” Triss explained. “Because you need to let go. I know that seems impossible right now, and I know that deep down, you don’t want to let go of him -”

“How do you know it feels that way?” Geralt demanded. 

Triss folded her hands on her lap, meeting his gaze. Her image distorted for a second, pixelated like an early 2000’s video, before the image collected itself again. “Well. You see, one summer I met someone who -at the time -meant the world to me. He was…” she trailed off, eyes distant. “Magic. Life was better when I was with him. And I fell in love with him before I could stop myself, because it wasn’t a choice, or a decision, or even a small moment. It just was.

“I wanted to spend all my time with him, but he was a mechanic, and he was often busy. And it’s easy for me to say now, that in retrospect, it wasn’t meant to be. It doesn’t hurt, like it used to, when I thought of him. Of how I loved him, with the free abandon of first love, or how much he meant to me. Because when you fall hard, it’s your whole world. And I think he could’ve loved me, but he chose not to. I had to accept it, but I couldn’t. Not when we were still sleeping together, not when he took me to farmer’s markets, and fairs, and smiled that damn smile.” Triss smiled, open and honest, and not the least afraid.

“I wanted, with all my heart, for him to be the one. But he wasn’t. Because he wouldn’t choose me. And I had to accept it, and it was the last thing I wanted to do. He was, at the time, the most amazing person I’d met. And he wasn’t perfect, I never thought he was -he was terrified of living his life, for example -but he was perfect to me. I craved to be a better person around him, like it was a competition to show him I was worthy. In the end, I walked away, but for the longest time, I chose to stay and cling to my idea of who he was.

“So yes, in a manner of speaking, I know the idea of letting Jaskier go feels impossible. But I need you to know we’ve all been there before. We’ve all had that special someone. Not all of us kept them around. I can sit here and tell you that you made the right decision until I’m blue in the face but you’ll never believe me. Not until you get there. I want you to go home and write a letter to him. Tell him how you felt.”

“Why?” 

Triss’ expression softened. “Because you never gave yourself the chance to, and if you don’t work through that emotion you’re just going to keep feeling stuck. And it’s not healthy.”

“Fine,” he said roughly. “Fine.”

Triss glanced at where he assumed she kept a clock to watch the time. “Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

Geralt turned back to the window; he shook his head. Peripherally he saw her shake her head, curls bouncing. 

“Alright. Next week, same time?”

Geralt nodded, though he didn’t know why. He didn’t know why he kept doing this to himself. She ended the call, and he took a deep, shuddery breath and pulled back out onto the road to Kaer Morhen. He unloaded the groceries silently and walked to his room. He hadn’t used it in so long, but every Witcher got a set of after they returned from their first hunt. It could have been a stuffy room, full of vintage crap, but he wasn’t one for souvenirs. He shut the door behind him, pulled out the stupid journal Triss had convinced him to buy and sat down on his bed.

Why was he even doing this? It was so stupid. He wasn’t going to feel better for doing it. He hadn’t even managed to write a single line down, and Triss hadn’t pushed him on it this far. But his fingers twitched, and there was so much he would say to Jaskier. So much he’d wanted to say.

In the end, he had to close his eyes to do it.

_Dearest Jaskier,_

_I love you. I have loved you since you sang your heart out that night, alone, and freezing. I thought you were a bumbling idiot before, empty-headed and desperate for a shot of fame however you could steal it. But that night, I knew you had it in you. You didn’t have to steal fame, or hog the spotlight, and you never did. Because you_ are _the spotlight. You steal the show without even trying._

_Everyone looks at you when you walk into a room. How couldn’t they? You’re the brightest thing in this world._

_And I’m just a monster who reached too far, who was greedy and selfish enough to hold you back. But you need to make the world a better place, and I don’t deserve to sit here and hold every inch of you to myself. There’s nothing I’ve ever wanted more than to keep you here, to beg you to stay._

_But one day you would have woken up and realized I wasn’t what you wanted. Just the second-best pick, who stole your bright future right out of your hands. Worst of all, you wouldn’t have known I’d even done it. And I’m not selfish enough to do it. I’m not selfish enough to make you stay when I know you wouldn’t be happy. Not really._

_I saw you perform for the first time, and I knew you belonged on a stage. You belonged in front of a camera, in front of a crowd, basking in their praise. You deserve the world, Jaskier._

_And I’m not going to be the one that keeps you from it._

_Yours,_

_Geralt._

He closed the journal, hand shaking. He wanted to rip the page out and throw it in the garbage where it belonged. What drivel. What a waste of time. He threw the journal aside, pulling an arm over his face. He wasn’t this emotional mess everyone seemed to think he was. 

He was fine, dammit.

He was fine.

He got up and made his way down to continue working on repairing the battlement. He’d had nearly two hundred years to learn these skills, to learn what he needed in order to help out. There weren’t enough monsters to occupy his time, and he had a handful of certificates tucked away in his room with credentials for construction, carpentry and whatever skills he could put his hands and muscles to. It was hard work, easy to let himself get lost in the repetitive motions, or the mental calculations.

He didn’t miss the summer. He didn’t miss Jaskier. 

He’d spent so long watching Jaskier’s every movement, convinced the student would blow everything for them. Convinced Jaskier knew more than he let on, in the beginning, that he planned to use the Witchers to his own advantage. Or worse, that he was more naive than he let on, and his smart mouth would just spill the truth out for the whole world. But Jaskier wasn’t like that. He wanted to let the world remember people he thought of as heroes. And Geralt could see the shine of approval in Vesemir’s eyes, because the old Wolf was old enough to be recognized as one. He’d lived through wars and saved more lives than Geralt ever would. 

More lives than Geralt ever could. Back then there’d still been people alive who believed in Witchers, who knew the signals and the codes, who would track Vesemir down for hunts and quests and help. Geralt had spent most of the 50’s in a police department hunting killers and kidnappers and putting his nose to good work, but it was small, petty crime. No one liked the answers. Least of all when they came from a man with white hair and yellow eyes, and he’d made no friends in the departments he was swapped around through. But Jaskier didn’t see that when he looked at them, at any of them. He didn’t see a monster, or a freak, or a mutant. He just saw heroes. He probably should have felt grateful for it, but all it did was piss him off.

And then to have Jaskier there, when Yennefer made her wish, when she undid the life they’d made together. Maybe it wasn’t true love. Maybe it never had been. But it was something. As horrible as he felt for tying them together with destiny, with a djinn’s wish, it was a huge part of his life. They’d raised Ciri together. They’d saved her from the end of the world, from her father, and even from herself. For Yennefer to leave him, after all that?

Geralt didn’t feel bad about it either. He should have. It had been twenty years, or longer, that their fates had been so entwined and enmeshed together. He should have felt something about it. But he didn’t. Yenn still texted him, maybe once a month, usually just a taunting emoji or a picture of her latest travels. He hoped she found the love and peace she deserved, that Geralt had kept her from. And his mind whirled, wondering if he’d missed out on people like Jaskier before. 

No, he thought, tightening his grip on the stone. No, there wasn’t anyone else like Jaskier out there.

Winter rolled across the valley that weekend, and drifted them in. They spent the evenings holed up in the library, pouring over books, playing gwent when they had a break. If Geralt played poorly, at least Eskel was kind enough not to point it out. Lambert wouldn’t have wasted a second. Vesemir didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t bother to comment on it. 

The ringing of a phone broke the silence. It was two weeks before Christmas, Geralt thought, laying down a siege tower in gwent.

“Hello?” Vesemir greeted.

“Vesemir!” Jaskier cried, his warm voice loud and bright and painful.

“Julian! Good to hear from you.”

Eskel glanced at Geralt, concern in his brown eyes.

“I wanted you to hear it from me. The Song of Kaer Morhen -they want to use it in a movie, and they’re talking film locations. I told them they should film on site, that there’s nowhere else to compare.”

Geralt stiffened.

“Lad, you didn’t have to do that.”

“I did!” Jaskier said brightly. “You guys deserve this. All of you.”

Geralt stood, chair scraping against the floor.

“They should be calling soon, I hope.”

Geralt walked, hand on the doorknob, turning it.

“Also I wanted to tell you that I’ve been nominated for best newcomer and I couldn’t have gotten here without you.”

Geralt stepped out, taking a breath. And then another.

“Tell Geralt…”

He shut the door behind him so quickly it slammed shut and echoed down the corridor. But it drowned out Jaskier’s voice. It drowned out his voice. Geralt pressed a hand against his chest, taking a measured breath. First one, then another, until it didn’t hurt quite so much. And then, a few more extra, just to be safe. They didn’t tell him Jaskier’s message, and he was grateful for it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what had been said, or if he could take having to listen to it.

Jaskier won the award.

Spring arrived in a torrential pouring of rain, that left them bogged down inside Kaer Morhen for nearly a week. By the time they went to town, for mail and groceries, the sun had been shining for a week and the flowers were poking up through mud and water. Eskel tossed him a box; it was from Jaskier.

It took him a month before he could open it. 

It was a necklace with buttercups in resin.

Geralt hung it off his bed frame and spent the next two weeks camping in the mud and rain. He missed the next two appointments with Triss, and she tore into him for it. He deserved it, he admitted. He showed her the gift and spent the rest of the session not talking about it. What was there to say? Jaskier got him a necklace for some reason. 

That summer Lambert got out on good behaviour, and then the photo shoots started for the film Jaskier had mentioned so long ago. Ciri came home from Skellige with a ring on her finger and her own story of a first love. Hopefully a lasting one; Geralt rather liked Cerys. For the first time in a year, Yenn came to Kaer Morhen. And she came for Ciri, he knew, but it was comforting to have her around nonetheless. For the first time in a year, there was laughter and warmth, and love inside Kaer Morhen’s walls. 

The summer after that, Geralt could go into grocery stores and hear Jaskier’s songs, bright and bubbly, and they didn’t make him want to run and hide. Just a vague sense of sadness, of nostalgia and the taste of regret in the back of his throat.

He touched the pendant under his shirt and breathed, slow and even, and kept going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once I can taste the end of a story, of a fic, I tend to chase it relentlessly because everything has been building towards this moment. I've been fleshing out the ending since the beginning, and it's my favorite part of writing. (Right beside the soul-crushing twist at the 3/4 mark)
> 
> I'm not sure if this will be 17 or 18 chapters btw.
> 
> I'm rather hopeful I won't end this by Friday. But probably by this weekend, if all goes well.


	16. It'll Get Easier With Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay guys! I decided to ask my boyfriend to marry me last Friday and he said yes! <3
> 
> Anyways, here's the chapter. Enjoy!

###  Chapter Sixteen, It Will Get Easier With Time 

The call came unexpectedly. But with things like that, he supposed it was always sudden. When you lived a life as they did, it was inevitable that it would come unexpectedly.

"You alright?" his manager asked, stepping closer at the expression on his face.

Jaskier shook his head, hand curling around his cell phone. His stomach plummeted, landing somewhere between both of his feet. He remembered, suddenly, viscerally the conversation he'd had with Vesemir after Geralt had left Oxenfurt. His heart ached, an empty, hollow kind of thud that reverberated through his rib cage and all the way to his very toes. Tears stung his eyes.

"No," he said, voice quiet.

He hadn't thought of Vesemir in a year, at least. Not since he'd heard they'd finished production on the Song of Kaer Morhen -which blessedly, was not a romance. He wasn't sure he could have survived seeing a grand summer romance play out inside those walls again. He had enough memories to last a lifetime of that place. But now it was Vesemir's voice he heard, the advice he'd offered in the days after his heart had shattered that he remembered the most. He struggled to even recall the man's face, now. Mostly he remembered Vesemir as a gruff voice and knowing yellow eyes. 

Vesemir had called about a day or two after Geralt left. It wasn't one of Jaskier's finer days; he'd been curled up in bed, blasting his music until he couldn't hear himself crying when his phone rang. He almost didn't answer it. But it wasn't Vesemir's fault for Geralt's decisions, and Jaskier missed the older man like he hadn't expected. He'd grown rather fond of their lessons, of the studying, of the quiet meals, and the older man's sharp wit. He muted his music, dried his eyes, and answered the phone.

"He's an idiot," Vesemir had said. "Try not to hold it against the rest of us, yeah?"

"Yeah," Jaskier had said, pulling the covers over his head like he could hide from the world. Like it was possible to escape everything.

"I'm going to be honest with you. I don't know what it's like to... feel, the way either of you do. That you have. But I know what you both had was something special, and I do know it would be a shame if you ripped it out to save yourself from the pain."

He had paused, and it was a thick, heavy silence. Jaskier didn't know what to say, so he said nothing, and he listened.

"Geralt will convince himself to feel nothing, to not feel anything, and it would be a shame if you chose the same path. One of you should be able to pull your head out of your ass long enough to live a life. And we may live long lives, but we learn early that it's easier to kill feelings than to live through all the heartache and the death, the misery and the shame. And Geralt? Feels more than the rest of us put together. Damn fool he is. I might have come close once to having what you two had, but I chose the safer option and gave her up rather than face... everything."

"I want it to go away," Jaskier had whispered. 

Geralt had said awful things. He had chosen to be cruel and malicious about them too, and his words struck deep. 

"That's your choice to make, lad. I've said my peace."

It had taken him weeks to digest everything Vesemir had said, and to remember it, to know that Vesemir had since died... Jaskier's heart was heavy with the news.

"Reschedule me. I need a week," Jaskier said. "An old friend of mine just passed and I'd like to be present for his funeral and wake."

People would be mad, he knew. It was money and days and some people wouldn't be able to come; they'd booked those days off months' in advance. Maybe he could set up a video call or send them gift baskets as an apology? He rattled off his idea to send an apology basket to those who wouldn't be able to make it to his new dates, complete with an autographed CD, some flowers, and maybe a gift card. Was it something other celebrities did? No. But he was canceling for selfish reasons. He sighed; sort of. He missed Kaer Morhen. He missed the Witchers. He missed that he'd never be able to talk to Vesemir again, to hear him verbally cuff himself or Geralt to knock sense into their skulls, and they'd needed it plenty of times. And, if he was completely honest, he had to let go of the idea that he'd be returning to Kaer Morhen where everything would still be the same. Because it wouldn't. It had been nearly two years since he'd left her walls.

"We'll get started on the gift baskets, but, Jaskier, it's not going to be cheap."

Jaskier waved his hand impatiently. "It's not like this was a major worldwide tour. It's the last leg and only, what, eight venues?"

"Six."

He nodded. "Do it. This isn't something I can miss."

Eskel had been the one who called, who broke the news. 

Not Geralt.

Jaskier grabbed his guitar and walked out on stage, and for the first time in more than a year, he performed the Song of Kaer Morhen to a captivated audience with tears in his eyes. He'd made it clear since his breath through that he wouldn't be playing the Song of Kaer Morhen, and had worked his ass off to get a second album out for an excuse. It hadn't sold as well as his first, but it was still a massive win as far as he was concerned. And while he didn't limit the radio play or anything, he had refused and straight-up walked out of interviews where they asked about the Song of Kaer Morhen. He refused to tell them anything other than the bare minimum: he'd written it for his graduation project. While the world got to know other parts of him, dissect his life, his childhood and school years, while they hungered for more music videos, more stories, it was the one thing he didn't share. It was his story, his life, and it belonged to him and Geralt alone.

Not for the first time, he wondered how the Witcher was doing. Had he decided to move on? Did he know about the Song of Kaer Morhen? Jaskier supposed he had to, it had been played on the radio so much even Jaskier was afraid to turn the damn thing on. Though he loved the awe he felt when he did hear one of his songs in a grocery store, in his car. It was exciting every time. Had Geralt got the pendant Jaskier sent him? He'd never acknowledged it. And he wasn't even sure why he'd decided to send it, to have it custom-made and sent off. It had been an impulse one drunken night that he'd thought about canceling for weeks after. Jaskier slammed out the final note to his song, hand drifting to cover the wolf-head medallion at the base of his neck. He still wore it. Had Geralt ever worn the buttercups? It was an amusing thought. Geralt with his fierce eyes, muscular form, black tees, and jeans wearing a buttercup pendant. No, Geralt probably didn't wear it. He'd likely hidden it somewhere he could forget about it, forget about Jaskier. 

Jaskier wondered what a life like that was like. Because while he'd made his efforts to move on, and he'd had some success, nothing had lasted. No one had stayed, in the end. He and Priscilla had dated for nearly a year, and he loved her, he wanted the best for her, but their schedules never lined up. She was touring Australia when he was in the States, and then he was in Japan while she was in Ireland. He'd loved her dearly, a newfound discovery after they graduated. Her breakthrough had been on YouTube, it had been quiet and then loud and overwhelming and Jaskier knew what she was going through. And he was there. And Priscilla knew heartbreak, and she knew how to love fiercely and without fear, and it was easy to love her. But schedules weren't kind to them, and distance made everything harder than it needed to be. Eventually, they broke up, quiet and out of the eyes of the press.

Did he miss Geralt, back then, Jaskier pondered. He thought he did. He imagined he always would. Geralt had fit perfectly, filled a gap in Jaskier’s heart he hadn’t known could fill. But the bitter taste of distance, of those last words, dulled the longing. And time numbed it over, until it was almost easy to not think about him. Because remembering Geralt, thinking about that summer, brought a yearning he was all too familiar with. Late night impulses to buy a plane ticket, to show up unannounced and yell at him, and cry. Just cry. It wasn’t manly, or very adult of him, but he’d never considered himself to be either of those things. But the thought of seeing Geralt always brought a sense of nervous dread to sink in the bottom of his gut, and those cold yellow eyes haunted his nightmares. So he didn’t. 

And if he’d lapsed once, if he’d once imagined a world where they’d simply walked away after that summer, without a word. If he hadn’t confessed, and they’d simply parted amicably… Well, he’d sent a token of his memory and affection to the other man, and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to not do it. Or to regret it. Geralt had left him a bag of his clothes and a pendant, but Jaskier had never given a single gift to Geralt. Except for that one song, which he’d never even gotten to play for him. 

And here he was, a single best selling pop star, soon to be on his way back to Kaer Morhen. Back to Geralt. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, the idea that Geralt might have moved on. Or maybe worse, that Geralt would avoid him like the plague. But if Jaskier had changed in these last few years, and he knew he had, he thought Geralt must be a nearly different person by now. Or maybe he had stagnated, Jaskier thought. Maybe he had buried his grief and denial into his immortality and where would they be then? Jaskier had loved him, then. Had loved him once. But Geralt had made his decision, and the hurt was still there, Jaskier knew. Maybe not for Geralt, but Jaskier felt it. Remembered it. It sat tucked behind his shirt, where it would remain unnoticed. 

They had him on a flight later that day, and by night he had arrived in Gynvael. The little town had nearly doubled in size since he was there last, he couldn’t help but notice. He supposed tourism to Kaer Morhen had really improved between the film and the likely staggering amount of repairs the Witchers had been doing since then. It was eerie to see, really, the vast change that two years had brought to this village. Jaskier walked down the street, admiring the changes. He wondered how different he was, how changed he’d become in the same time.

“Jaskier?”

He looked up, smiling a greeting to Eskel. “Hey.”

“It’s good to have you here,” he said, pulling him into a shoulder hug. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said firmly. His grip tightened around his shoulder momentarily before he abruptly pulled away. “Don’t. He died peacefully in bed, of old age. It’s a thing to celebrate for us.”

And yet, Jaskier knew, the Witchers were crushed. There was a tightness in Eskel’s jaw, a tension in his body, that screamed miserable. They had lost their anchor. Their father. And Jaskier had come to share in the grief with them.

“It’s never happened before,” Eskel said roughly. “It’s a sign that the world is changing for us.”

Jaskier nodded, adjusting the guitar case on his back. “Better times ahead, I hope,” he said. “How’s he doing?”

Eskel turned to him consideringly. In the dim light, the scars across his face seemed long. “As well as any of us. You should know… Lambert and Keira are here, and so is Geralt’s daughter Ciri and her wife.”

He had a daughter? Jaskier blinked. “Oh.”

“I don’t think you met her when you were here,” Eskel continued, as though he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell on him. “She was in Skellige, then.”

Okay, so it wasn’t a new daughter, Jaskier figured. He felt a little better, knowing that. But he didn’t want to say anything. “Yennefer?”

Eskel laughed. “Vesemir would be pissed if she showed up, no. Out of respect for him, she won’t come.”

“They didn’t like each other, then.”

Eskel chuckled, unlocking a red pick-up truck. “He hated her guts. He didn’t like Keira either, but she does good by Lambert. They do well for each other.” Eskel offered a hand, tossing Jaskier’s bags into the back of the truck. 

Jaskier climbed in, pulling his guitar across his lap.

“I think you were the only outsider he ever warmed up to.” He started the truck. “Don’t get me wrong, he loves Ciri’s wife like a granddaughter too, but he loved you like a son.”

Jaskier stared out the window, willing the burning in his eyes to go away. “He was more of a father to me than any of my family was.”

It would have been cruel to dismiss the email chain they’d exchanged since he’d left. He felt bad that he hadn’t been more communicable, but he’d tried. He’d answered every email, and sent a few queries of his own to Vesemir when it felt appropriate. They talked about his tours, about the world and the history of Witchers. They talked about the film, about production, about the foolishness of camera crews and assistants. They didn’t talk about Geralt. But Vesemir had been open about Lambert’s return from prison, and how Eskel had been offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to preserve books halfway across the world that he’d rejected. Jaskier talked about Priscilla, because he wasn’t ashamed of having tried to move on, and he talked about the scenery of all the places he visited. 

“He’s the only father we ever got to have,” Eskel said quietly, driving out of Gynvael.

Jaskier held his guitar close. “I brought alcohol.”

“We’ll need it.”

The drive to Kaer Morhen was quiet after that. Jaskier thought about Vesemir, about that summer two years ago. He wondered how Geralt was doing, not for the first time, and accepted that the other Witcher wasn’t going to be doing well today. Or anytime for the rest of this week. But what would Geralt’s daughter be like? Was she Yennefer’s? And why hadn’t Geralt mentioned her? Maybe he hadn’t ever gotten to know Geralt that well. And that was the shame of it, wasn’t it? Jaskier sighed to himself. Because if he’d been given the chance to get to know more about Geralt, to spend time here, he would have learned about Ciri. Met her under different circumstances.

Now, he needed to remember he hadn’t returned to Kaer Morhen to be in a relationship with Geralt. He was here for Vesemir. He was here to share the quiet grief, and the echo of what joy they could pull together for the wake. He wasn’t here for Geralt, though he wanted to be. He wished that Geralt had been the one to call him, to ask him to come back. But he hadn’t. Eskel had called him, had told him Vesemir would want him here, and more importantly, that Jaskier should be here for himself. Over the years, he’d sent his thesis to Eskel so that the Witchers could perserve it in Kaer Morhen’s library. Apparently it was something they’d done with the other graduate students as well, and Jaskier was delighted to be included.

Eskel parked outside the castle, and the pang of longing that shot through Jaskier’s heart was unfair. It felt like home. They got out in companionable silence, and Jaskier took notice of Geralt’s motorcycle, a sportscar he could only assume was Lambert’s, and a Subaru that had to belong to Geralt’s daughter or her wife. Jaskier grabbed his bags, slinging his guitar across his back, and heading inside.

“Eskel! What took you so long?” called a woman. From around the corner came a young woman with white hair and purple eyes. “And who’s this?”

She held herself like a fighter, he realized. 

“I’m - I was a friend of Vesemir’s,” Jaskier said, offering his hand. “I’m Jaskier.”

Ciri -for it had to be Ciri -took his hand in hers and shook it firmly, without hesitation. Not that he expected otherwise from a woman raised by Witchers, by Geralt no less. “What kind of name is that?” she asked.

“One I picked for myself,” Jaskier said, as charmingly as he could manage. 

Ciri laughed. “Keep your secrets then, musician. I didn’t realize Vesemir had friends.”

Eskel made a noise, something like a strangled attempt at reproach that got lost inside of a laugh. “He was the Old Wolf’s favorite student.”

“Oh!” Ciri said, eyes widening. “Yes, he had me buy your album when it came out.”

“I sent him a copy for free,” Jaskier protested. He felt his cheeks flush. “I hope he didn’t listen to it.”

“He definitely did,” Eskel said, smiling sadly. “He was fond of the Song of the White Wolf.”

“He listened to it?”

“He wanted to make sure you did us justice,” Eskel said, completely unfazed by any of this.

Jaskier was still reeling. “But he liked it?” He just couldn’t imagine Vesemir listening to music -any music -let alone his. “He liked it?”

Ciri laughed and hugged him. “Oh, you were friends.”

Jaskier hugged her back, feeling a bit overwhelmed by all of this. “Yes, we -we were.”

“We should go see the others. They’ll want to see you.”

“Are you sure about that?” Jaskier asked before he could stop himself. “Do we know that, for sure?” Because he could think of one angry face that wouldn’t be happy to see him here. 

Eskel rolled his eyes, not bothering to answer his question before heading down the hall. Jaskier followed after him, Ciri keeping stride with him as she chattered about the stories Vesemir had told her about him. The human who thought he could be a Witcher. Did she know about the rest? Probably not, he imagined. He couldn’t see Geralt talking about it, anymore than he could bring himself to talk about it. Though she must have some idea, if she’d heard the Song of Kaer Morhen. And to imagine Vesemir listening to that song? He cringed.

“Jaskier!” 

He looked up into a pair of angry yellow eyes and found Lambert slapping him on the back. Keira was there too, he noticed, looking pleased in the background. And, at the end of the room, standing with his back to them, Geralt and another young woman he could only assume was Ciri’s wife. Ciri left to join her father, and Jaskier let Lambert lead him away into a tirade about how soft Jaskier’s thesis had been. When he had a minute to breathe, when he looked over his shoulder towards the fireplace, he saw only Ciri and her wife. 

“He’s surprised to see you here,” Keira said quietly, blue eyes on Jaskier. 

“He’ll get over it,” Lambert said dismissively.

Jaskier smiled weakly, heart twisting painfully. As the injured party, he rather thought he should have been the one to flee the room. Because, try as he might to remember that awful night, any way he examined it, he was the one whose heart had been broken. But before he could get too lost in his thoughts, alcohol was brought out, and Lambert pulled out a gwent deck, and the party carried on until very late in the night. Ciri and her wife, Cerys, were still up when Jaskier stumbled his way to bed.

He didn’t see Geralt.

Part of him foolishly hoped as he stumbled down the corridor, the world spinning around him, that when he got to his old room he’d find Geralt there, waiting for him. But instead, all he found was himself lost in a corridor unfamiliar to him. He set a hand on the wall and walked backwards, trying to retrace his steps. But the walls all looked the same. He frowned, holding onto the wall as he tried to remember. Had he climbed stairs to get here? Maybe the stairs were the wrong choice. He walked down them. Had he taken a left or a right? He wobbled, grabbing onto the wall. Definitely a left. He turned right. Well, probably a left. This had to be the way.

It had been two years, no one could blame him for getting lost. He set a steadying hand against the wall, and it was a cold, stone wall, and the floor under his feet felt no better. Honestly, if it wasn’t so cold, he would have laid down right there. But it was the opposite of comfortable. And he knew, if only he could find his room, the shower of heaven was there. He wanted to have a heavenly shower. He took a shaky step forward, and then another, and continued down the hall.

He opened the first door he came to, exposing an old weathered desk and bookshelves. It even smelled musty, like a library. He closed the door and opened the next one. Boxing gloves danged from the ceiling and it smelled like beer and sweat, and other things he didn’t want to think about. He closed the door and moved onto the next one. It held a four-poster bed with a lovely mesh curtain and smelled like lavender; he noticed two sets of bags,and closed the door again. He opened the next to find it full of junk. He stumbled, toe colliding with the next sturdy door, and he yelped in pain.

Toe vs door? Round one to the door. He swore under his breath, jumping on one foot as he massaged his toe. The door swung open, nearly hitting him in the face. Through the door hinge he saw white hair. The faint scent of juniper and lemongrass. Jaskier blinked stupidly, staring, silent. The door closed partially, and Jaskier found himself face to face with Geralt.

“You’re drunk,” he said, voice soft and uncertain. 

Geralt’s eyes were red. Not red, like, his eyes were still yellow, but they were red. Dark circles under them, too. It wasn’t a good look.

“Yeah,” Jaskier slurred. “What… about it?”

Geralt sighed. “What are you doing here?”

Jaskier opened his mouth to say exactly what he was here for. Mourning Vesemir. “Missing you.” He blinked. That wasn’t right. He frowned, slowly. 

It was true.

It wasn’t right. But it was true.

Geralt’s eyes were wide with panic. Probably revulsion, Jaskier realized. It wasn’t like Geralt even wanted him here. He hadn’t even called Jaskier to tell him the news. And tt had been two years. Two very long years. Nothing had changed between them except for Jaskier’s shattered, broken heart, which seemed to be beating rather loudly now. Like a dog’s tail, it had spotted his favorite person and now he couldn’t make it stop.

And wasn’t that stupid? How dumb was he? Geralt didn’t want him. 

“Hi,” he said dumbly, instead.

“Jaskier…” Geralt turned away, shoulders loose and resigned, and he was sad. 

Geralt was sad.

His eyes were red because he’d been crying. 

Because Vesemir was dead.

Jaskier felt like crying too.

Jaskier stepped forward, throwing his arms around Geralt. In the morning, when he was sober, he could regret and all the other emotions but for now, life was so simple. He wanted to touch Geralt. Smell him. Feel his skin underneath his.

“I’m sorry,” he said, nose under Geralt’s jaw. 

Geralt stiffened.

“About Vesemir. I know he was like a father to you.”

Geralt’s arms went around him, slow and hesitant at first.

“I’m here for you.”

Geralt’s arms tightened around him, and then he shook with tears as he wept against Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier held him close, tears in his own eyes.

"What am I supposed to do now?" Geralt breathed. "He's gone."

Jaskier held him tight.

"He's gone."


	17. And I Remember Everything

###  Chapter Seventeen, The Words I Never Got To Say, And I Remember Everything 

Jaskier held Geralt that night in bed. It wasn't romantic, or sexual, or any of those things. It just was. It was them existing in the same space, touching for comfort, easing what hurt they could put their hands on. Which to say, it wasn't easing much. Vesemir's loss was a gaping hole in both of their hearts. Jaskier felt bad for it, because he hadn't really known Vesemir. But the older man had been such a strong presence in his life from the first day he stepped foot in Kaer Morhen that he couldn't deny it. But in bed, arms curled around Geralt, he felt oddly selfish.

Morning came too soon, skies parting with a dull sliver of blue-gray clouds. Geralt couldn't even meet his gaze.

"Ciri seems cool," Jaskier said, desperate to extend an olive branch. Desperate to mend this weighted silence between them.

Geralt blinked at him then.

"I met her yesterday."

"She was in Skellige while you were here, studying with Cerys," Geralt said. "I adopted her when she was twelve."

"You never told me."

"I didn't mean to keep her from you," he said after a pause. "She's a grown woman. We… were two consenting adults."

Jaskier leaned back against the headboard.

Geralt's room was fuller than he would have imagined it. A plain queen bed with gray sheets, a bookshelf packed to the brim with various books. Several of them had cracked spines, and must have been well-loved. There was a small desk with a gaming laptop set up, and Jaskier wondered if Geralt even used half of the processing power it produced. There were pictures hanging from every wall, and while they were all scenery photos, they must have been breathtaking to see in person. A pink sunrise over the ocean, a crumbling tower and the remains of a village on the open water, a castle on a hill with a brilliant sunset where a horse and its rider observed the view.

"I feel like I don't know you half as well as I should," Jaskier said, keeping his voice light. "But even then, I feel like it doesn't matter. If I got the chance to know Ciri, I know it would be okay. And I don't even know if you play video games, or what books you read, but you are the kindest person I know." He paused, considering. "I don't know if that says more about me or you, but it's the truth." He shrugged.

Geralt snorted. "I broke your heart."

Jaskier's heart twisted at the reminder, and he smiled painfully. "Yes. You did."

"I'm not sorry."

Jaskier blinked, feeling tears prick his eyes. "What." Of all the things he'd expected Geralt to say, that wasn't it. Maybe it should have been though.

"Look at you," Geralt continued quickly, gesturing at all of Jaskier.

He looked at himself, at his red skinny jeans, at the henley he was wearing. His coat, tailored to fit him, slung over Geralt's computer chair. What was so special about him? He couldn't think of a single thing. He felt the wolf-head medallion against his chest, was acutely aware of it, and anxiously twisted at the square ring on his middle finger. Something for him to focus on, to divert his mind.

"You're famous, a success. If you had stayed, you would have been giving all of that up." He sounded almost proud.

Jaskier twisted the ring around his finger. "I could have done both. Did you ever consider that?"

Jaskier had. He'd spent endless hours imagining a world where he had both his career and Geralt. It felt like a fantasy, always out of reach. A world where he went on tour, and came back home to Kaer Morhen, to Geralt, where they'd spend a day locked up in a room together before emerging. Jaskier would watch him repair the fortress, he'd help Vesemir cook meals, and he'd read books to Eskel. Or perhaps have Eskel read them to him. He could have been surrounded by the rich history of the fortress, the fresh smells of nature, and gone to bed every night in Geralt's arms.

"I didn't think I was worth that," Geralt admitted quietly.

Jaskier turned to him in shock. "Of course you are! I would have given up everything for you!"

"And that's why I'm not sorry," Geralt said, setting his hand on Jaskier's jaw. "You deserved better."

Jaskier set his hand over Geralt's. "You deserved me," he said vehemently. "We worked so well. We were happy, weren't we? And you took that away from me." And, Jaskier realized as he stared into Geralt's eyes, that Geralt had taken that happiness away from himself too.

Geralt looked away first, his grip loosening, but Jaskier held tight. He moved closer. "It's never been about deserving," Jaskier whispered. "Never. I wanted you. We could have made it work. We just needed time to get there, to get the words out, to find how to balance my schedule and yours."

"Jaskier, I'm not sorry for breaking up with you," Geralt said, gently tugging his hand away. "I'm sorry for how I did it. I'm sorry I never talked with you about it first." He wrapped his hand around Jaskier's, squeezing it gently. "And I'm sorry I never gave us a chance."

Jaskier blinked. "What?"

"You didn't deserve that. What I said was cruel, and unfair. You deserved better than what I could give you."

Jaskier squeezed his hand numbly, checking it was real, and it was. Geralt squeezed back. Geralt squeezed back. So it wasn't a dream. Even in his dreams, he hadn't been able to picture a moment like this, where Geralt apologized. He couldn't think of a time where Geralt had ever meaningfully apologized before.

"I don't expect your forgiveness…" he chuckled softly. "Vesemir called it, really, that I probably wouldn't ever get it. And that's okay. What I did was terrible."

"And it ate you from the inside out, didn't it?"

Geralt startled.

"You could have called," Jaskier said roughly. "You could have texted. Emailed. Sent me a goddamn letter at any point in time."

"You… I thought you wouldn't want to hear from me."

"I would have killed to hear from you," Jaskier admitted. "I would have died to know you were sorry." To know that their break-up had never really been about Jaskier at all. He'd wondered, over the years. How could he not?

"None of those things would have meant as much if I didn't say them to you. And if… if you've always wanted that, and I'm only doing it now, then I'm sorry for that too."

Jaskier blinked, surprised to feel hot tears rolling down his cheeks. "You don't get to do that."

"Do what?"

"This." He didn't even know what this was. "This apology. I…" He wanted to say he'd moved on. He wanted to talk about Priscilla, about tours, about having learned to let go when he couldn't move on. "I only wanted you, Geralt. And the fame, and the success, and everything I wanted has been exactly as fulfilling as I imagined it being. But it's lonely without you."

And it was. Sure, Jaskier still slept with people. Met them, hit the rush of endorphins from infatuation, and he bedded them. Safely, freely, without any fuss, and without any promises.

"I used to wonder how I would manage to fit you in my life," Jaskier admitted. "I was scared that I would get the fame, the tours, all of it. And without having a place to call home, my other relationship failed. There was no middle ground for us.

"But when I go to sleep at night, when I dream about home. Where I felt the safest, the most cared for? It used to be Oxenfurt. And then it was here. Kaer Morhen. Didn't you ever listen to the song?"

"How couldn't I?"

"I fell in love with you here. And you made this place my home. You and Vesemir."

"I know."

"Then why didn't you ever say anything?"

"I was scared," Geralt growled. "Is that what you want to hear? Is that what I should say?"

"Is it the truth?"

"Of course it's the truth!"

Jaskier kissed him.

Geralt pulled back, wide-eyed. "You're not mad?"

Jaskier reached back, pulling the cord around his neck until the necklace was visible. "I think you're an idiot."

Geralt mirrored his movement as he pulled the buttercup resin necklace from under his shirt.

Jaskier stared at it, feeling tears welling in his eyes again. "You kept it?"

"You gave it to me."

Sure, he had. But it had been a drunken impulse he could never bring himself to regret, that he wasn't sure Geralt would keep. To know that not only had Geralt kept it, but that he'd worn it? After so long?

"And I remember everything," Geralt added. "That summer might have been short, but it was ours. And I don't think I ever told you, but I loved you too."

"I _still_ love you, my dear," Jaskier murmured, leaning towards him until their foreheads were touching. "I didn't exactly stop."

And then Geralt kissed him, soft and slow, and everything was right with the world again.

Not that it could last for long, because under their newfound feelings, underneath the trepidation and fear to restart things, was the grief of having lost Vesemir. They went to breakfast but didn't hold hands. And they didn't exactly talk about what they were, or what they wanted to be, because there were other things to deal with first. And everyone was sore. Cerys made breakfast, flipping large stacks of pancakes onto plates while Ciri supervised. Eskel noticed that they came in together, looking between them curiously. Lambert didn't notice, too busy showing off sleight of hand tricks to Keira that she seemed to already know.

They ate and chattered, and it was busier than yesterday. Jaskier set about preparing some music, grateful he'd brought his guitar, as Eskel went over the plan. They'd cremated Vesemir as per his wishes, and the three Wolf Witchers would carry the ashes to the top of the Blue Mountains where they would release Vesemir's ashes overlooking the valley. Cerys was in charge of dinner, Ciri in charge of the alcohol, and Keira would be off doing her own thing. Whatever that meant. So Jaskier prepared the music, pulling out upbeat songs, as he chatted with the two young women. It was easy to tell they were in love; everything they did had a certain synchronicity to it, and he was a little jealous he'd never had it.

Maybe one day with Geralt, he could have it. But for now, after that lengthy discussion this morning, he was glad to keep it between them. And privately, he knew Vesemir would be delighted to know they'd even made it this far. He'd always said not to expect an apology from Geralt, and Jaskier had known he wouldn't be able to process everything without one. Because Geralt's words from so long ago, he carried them like a scar, forever feeling it had been his shortcomings that left them broken. But it was Geralt's fear, Geralt's doubts about his worthiness.

Jaskier strummed on his guitar. He wouldn't mind spending the rest of his life proving to Geralt that he was worthy. He was so worthy. He smiled to himself.

"You play well," Ciri commented, looking over from the kitchen. "Do you sing too?"

Jaskier turned to her, grinning, and sang the Song of Kaer Morhen. For the first time, he did it without shedding a single tear. It was a revelation like it was meant to be, sweet worship of Kaer Morhen, and an expression of love. Pure, and simple love.

He thought if Vesemir could see them now, he'd be glowing with pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're almost there.


	18. Say You Feel It Too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've spent a week thinking about how best to end this fic. Really, it ended last chapter. It brought everything to a close, settled the conflict between them, and teased the promise of a future _something_ between Geralt and Jaskier. 
> 
> So here's a series of snapshots into their life together afterward.
> 
> (The timestamps of intervening time, is since Vesemir's funeral.)

###  Chapter Eighteen, Say You Feel It Too 

~Six Months Later~

It was strange returning to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier thought. He had a week between concerts, so here he was. He hauled his bags behind him, already feeling the jetlag. But it was worth it, he realized, seeing Geralt standing at the gate. He hurried over, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and Geralt took his bags. They drove back to Kaer Morhen in Eskel’s truck.

“How’s everyone doing?” Jaskier asked, adjusting his guitar case. 

“Eskel’s going through Vesemir’s notes and plans he had for Kaer Morhen, and working on expanding them. Lambert and Keira are hunting down the vamp that started all of this; I told them it was a bad idea. But did they listen?” Geralt sighed.

“And you?”

“I’m looking for new projects around the fortress,” Geralt answered simply.

Jaskier glanced at him, watching him thoughtfully. He wasn’t sure that it was what Geralt wanted to be doing for the rest of his life. Fixing up Kaer Morhen was Vesemir’s dream. Then again, perhaps Geralt would do it until the keep was finished. Until Vesemir’s dream had been realized.

Jaskier yawned in response, rubbing at his eyes. “Milan was a trip,” he said, rambling about his latest concert. 

He must have fallen asleep sometime after because when he woke up, the truck was parked and Geralt was carrying his bags inside. Jaskier stumbled out of the truck, guitar case in hand, and walked to Geralt’s room on auto-pilot. He collapsed in his bed and was asleep not long after.

Geralt made breakfast for them, and Jaskier’s heart fluttered at the domesticness of it. Geralt, in the kitchen, wearing a cheesy kiss the chef apron Jaskier had bought for him as a gag gift, cooking. Eskel joined them, phone in hand, looking tired and older than before. But he ate with them. They spoke about world news, about Jaskier’s tour, and Ciri’s travel. 

In the months since Vesemir’s funeral, after Jaskier had left, he and Geralt had exchanged numbers and email addresses. They called about once a week, video called when they had five minutes to spare, and otherwise texted. Emailing was far too formal, but it was nice to have it available as an option. They texted all the time. Geralt didn’t use social media, and while there were a handful of other apps Jaskier would rather use than texting, he appreciated their contact so much. Two years between them had changed so much, and yet so little. 

But they also weren’t nervous high schoolers tiptoeing around any elephants in the room either. Jaskier was frequently traveling around various continents, he was often exhausted and bitchy, and Geralt had a regular schedule. But when Jaskier was miserable by midafternoon halfway across the world, Geralt was there at five in the morning. Sometimes as early as four. Jaskier didn’t miss those mornings, not in the slightest, but he loved Geralt all the more for it.

Jaskier was too tired for sex, much to his chagrin, but Geralt didn’t seem fussed. Instead, they had a late night movie binge with hot chocolate and popcorn. And while it didn’t compare to sex, it was great in its own way.

~A year later~

Jaskier pulled on one of Geralt’s t-shirts with a certain satisfaction, tucking away the last of his clothes into the dresser they’d arranged to fit. Sure, Jaskier had two other rooms that he’d laid claim to, but this was their room. He smiled warmly. One of the rooms was for his musical instruments, and while the press didn’t yet know he lived in Kaer Morhen, the locals certainly did. Jaskier’s favorite part of the week was spent at the local high school teaching kids how to play guitar, and those afternoons he left open for teaching musically inclined kids how to play the piano. It was entirely rewarding.

“You don’t have enough of your own clothes?” Geralt asked incredulously. “Now you have to steal mine?”

Jaskier nodded, pushing the drawer shut. “Your stuff is just so much nicer.”

“Maybe if you stopped buying designer clothes, you could like some of what you own too,” Geralt suggested wryly. 

Jaskier gasped in faux-offense. “Never!”

“You can have one shirt,” Geralt said firmly. “One.”

~A year and a half later~

It was funny, Jaskier thought. He’d had all these extravagant plans. He’d been planning to ask Geralt for the last three months, but he couldn’t decide on how. At a fancy restaurant? Inside Kaer Morhen? In a helicopter ride across the Blue Mountains? 

“Will you marry me?” Geralt asked, kneeling, ring extended.

Jaskier tilted his head to the side in consideration, digging into his pocket, heart beating. “I don’t know, I think that depends on how you answer my next question.” His heart swelled to bursting when he saw Geralt’s eyes widen with panic, but then he pulled out his ring box. “Will you marry me?”

Geralt laughed, a nervous bubble, as he held position. “I asked first.”

“Of course!”

And then they kissed and took a breath long enough to sort out the rings. 

“How long have you been planning this?” Geralt asked, pushing the ring on.

“Months,” he admitted, a little ashamed.

Their bedroom was a mass of candles, petals, and romantic music playing off the speakers. It was simple, straightforward, and completely private. Just the kind of thing Geralt would plan.

“I asked first,” Geralt repeated, grinning at him.

Jaskier rolled his eyes fondly.

~Two and a half years later~

Jaskier had never been happier to have a wedding planner, even though their wedding was small and intimate no matter how you looked at it. Geralt didn’t have much in the way of friends or family, but they were all accounted for. Jaskier deliberately didn’t invite his grandparents, and instead kept to his closest friends and the people on his music team that he actually liked. And he didn’t want the press to get wind of any of it beforehand, so he didn’t invite any other celebrities, big or small. Not even Priscilla. 

But it was perfect either way. Eskel stood as Geralt’s best man, and Jaskier had James standing for him. It was a brief ceremony, but Jaskier’s heartbeat steadily throughout it, eyes glued to Geralt’s. The arch above them was a simple wooden construction with enchanted flowers tangled through it, dropping feather-soft petals over the both of them. A simple blessing from Keira, apparently, much to Jaskier’s pleasure. 

“You may now kiss the groom.”

They kissed, and their small audience cheered. 

Photos were handled entirely professionally, and Jaskier thought he’d never been happier. That he would never be happier. It was his dream day, and Geralt had been far too accommodating in letting Jaskier organize everything just the way he wanted it. Their reception was covered with fairy lights, floral centerpieces, and the dancing was a sight to behold. Jaskier wouldn’t have thought Witchers could dance, or that he’d ever see a Witcher dance, but here there were three of them. They moved with enviable grace and purpose, even Geralt, who spun Jaskier with practiced ease.

The food was divine and kept coming all night long, as did the wine. 

Ciri and Cerys were the last to call it quit; Eskel had been the first to retire. And Jaskier had never been so happy to have a wedding at Kaer Morhen, and while he wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that Eskel had convinced him to lend some wedding photographs to further cement Kaer Morhen as a tourist destination, Jaskier found he didn’t mind. It was a gorgeous place.

It was home.

And if it would help Kaer Morhen grow, if it would bring more people to her empty halls, to see her beauty and remember the Witchers, Jaskier didn’t mind.

Perhaps their wedding night was meant to be loud and rowdy and last all night long, Jaskier was exhausted and happy enough to fall into bed with his husband. The world be damned. This, right here, was his home. For forever and a day, this was his home.

~Epilogue~

Jaskier went on tours less and less the older he got. He was happy to keep producing music, and they’d even constructed a guest house on the property where he could do that. He also taught students there on weekday afternoons, between any of his five instruments, and he was surprised to find that he truly did enjoy kids. They were great. Curious creatures with big eyes, clumsy fingers, and an eagerness to learn that was almost flattering. Most of them didn’t know who he was, either. He was just Geralt’s husband or Mr. Rivia. Not a celebrity, not a big name with flashing lights.

Eskel finished the projects around Kaer Morhen, and while Jaskier had expected Geralt to be lost without a purpose, he was surprised to find that Geralt simply opened a business. If you could call it that, Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure, but the people in Gynvael knew they could call on him to do repairs. Sometimes Geralt carved figurines, little toys for Jaskier’s students, or pendants. He never sold them for money, simply handed them out. It rather cemented his reputation as the strange man who lived in the castle, that everyone was scared of but too scared to deny a beautiful gift. It was kind of funny. If Jaskier wasn’t in love with the man, he might have pointed it out, but Geralt never had cared what people thought of him. 

Eskel went to work in a museum, but he still returned for the Christmas holidays at Kaer Morhen. Lambert and Keira never did say whether they took care of their vampire problem, and no one asked, because they were too pleased to see them return for the holidays as well. Ciri and Cerys adopted a small pack of wild children, kids from rough backgrounds, who had scars both inside and out. But they loved their children fiercely. And even though they had broken the Christmas tree more than once, Jaskier found he loved those children just as dearly. It wasn’t as though it was deliberate destruction either, which made it harder to stay angry all the same. Mostly it was kids desperate for attention and terrified of it by equal measure.

Lambert and Keira got married nearly ten years later, though they refused any celebration. Keira said weddings were too much work, and instead they had an elaborate hand-fasting elopement with no guests other than the officiant. There were pictures. Her dress had to have cost thousands of dollars -there were pearls and crystals sewn into the bloody thing! Privately, Jaskier rather thought she’d spent their entire wedding budget on the dress and Lambert didn’t care enough about a big ceremony to mind in the first place. Lambert left the MMA arena and moved into television hosting a series about youth and prison, and sometimes involved Cerys who was a probation officer. It was a show dedicated to keeping kids out of prison, and much to their frustration, they could only work with kids whose families approved. Kids in the system were out of touch, unreachable behind confidentiality barriers, or parents who were unavailable. 

Jaskier didn’t bring it up. They’d been married for twelve years, and he didn’t bring it up. He taught his students and was happy with it. He helped babysit for Ciri and Cerys, and he didn’t mention it. It didn’t seem worth it, not really. They were happy. 

“Dad,” Ciri said conversationally, as Jaskier had his arms full with a squirming toddler. The newest installment to Ciri and Cerys’ little clan. “Are you guys ever gonna adopt?”

Geralt blinked, and Jaskier nearly lost his grip on the squirming child in his arms.

“Jaskier looks like he wants to cry every time he seems a sad face or a kid who can’t afford piano lessons.”

Geralt turned to Jaskier.

“I mean…”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Geralt asked, and he wasn’t angry. Surprised, perhaps.

Jaskier blushed. “We’re happy, aren’t we?”

“Do you want kids?”

“Oh my god,” Ciri muttered. “You guys seriously haven’t talked about this before.” She stood up, grabbing Wilder out of Jaskier’s arms. “Who’s the adult here? Really?” She tsked and shooed her other gremlins out of the room to give them privacy.

“Of course I do,” Jaskier muttered. “But you have Ciri -”

“I have a lifetime to live, and we have money to spare.” Geralt frowned. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“You have Ciri! Maybe she was all you wanted?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, turning to Jaskier, taking his hand in his. “Early on you were busy with tours and concerts, and we didn’t have time. I didn’t think you wanted any.”

“I don’t think I did then,” Jaskier said sheepishly. “It just sort of snuck up on me.”

“I’m happy if we don’t, and I’m happy if we do add another person to our family. Ciri is a grown woman. And we have a lifetime ahead of us.”

“We do.”

Geralt kissed him softly. “Idiot,” he murmured affectionately. He tweaked his nose.

Jaskier flailed at him. 

“How many do you want?”

“Let’s start with one, maybe?”

And so they did start with one. It was how they met Sarah, a lonely girl whose parents had passed away in a tragic accident. And because of her, they met Johnny, a kid who’d lived on a farm all his life, whose parents had surrendered him to the state for reasons unknown. Sarah’s best friend was Johnny. And while it wasn’t easy, by any means, as they had already started the adoption process for Sarah, once they had her back at Kaer Morhen, they started a new process to include Johnny in their family too.

And while it took them years to settle in, they belonged. Jaskier hoped that when they were grown, they could come to look at Kaer Morhen as a safe haven of a kind. It wasn’t always easy, as raising children rarely was, but it was fulfilling. It felt right, and Jaskier would have fought tooth and nail for those kids. So would Geralt, and all the other Witchers. It would have been too easy if Ciri and Cerys’ clan embraced their new cousins right away, but they got used to each other. And then they slowly made friends. Eventually, when Christmas rolled around, it was with a pack of hungry children and proud Witchers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 Please leave a comment if you've read this far. I love all of you, and hope you're doing well, and I hope, above all else, that this ending is satisfying.

**Author's Note:**

> And I Remember Everything -This Town by Niall Horan  
> It's So Nice To Meet You / Let's Never Talk Again -We Don't Have to Dance by Andy Black  
> No, I won't smile, but I'll show you my teeth -Nightmare by Halsey  
> I Guess This Got Kinda Drastic -Desperate Measures by Marianas Trench  
> An Avalanche In Silence -Voices by Switchfoot  
> An Artist On Fire -Middle Finger by Bohnes  
> I'm Obsessed, I'm Embarrassed -I'm A Mess by Bebe Rexha  
> Some Mistakes Get Made -Moral of the Story by Ashe ft Niall Horan  
> I'll Come Tackle The Monsters -If You Need Me by Julia Michaels  
> Live, Die, Wherever You Are -You and I by Barns Courtney  
> I'm Yours To Tame -Middle of the Night by Elley Duhe  
> Oh, Will Wonders Ever Cease? -Mystery of Love by Sufjan Stevens  
> For the Hell Of It -Fallin' (Adrenaline) by Why Don't We  
> Wherever You Stray -Willow by Taylor Swift  
> I'm All In -Eight by Sleeping At Last  
> You're The Sound Of A Song - Lost My Mind by Alice Kristiansen  
> It Will Get Easier With Time - Hurts by Mika  
> And I Remember Everything -This Town by Niall Horan  
> Say You Feel It Too -The Words by Christina Perri  
> Tell Me Now -Tolerate It by Taylor Swift (bonus song, Geralt's theme)


End file.
